The Coming of the King Part 58

"I have heard nothing."

"It was the best joke I have heard of for years," laughed my father.

"Verily I believe it was that which made Charles hang old John Leslie.

He hath let more guilty men go free; besides, Sir John was a harmless old fool, with nought against him save that he was over-religious."

"But tell me, father; tell me," I pleaded.

"Well," said my father, "no sooner did she leave his Majesty's presence than it seems that she began to look around for a means of escape. It seems also that during the time she appeared before the king, half-a-dozen young gallants lost their hearts over her, and she being a quick-Pwitted maid singled out the biggest fool of the whole batch. I suppose that during her midnight audience with the king these young fools waited around the corridors in the hope of having speech with her.

How she did it I don't know; but she managed to gain audience with the young fool I have mentioned, and in five minutes he became wax in her hands. She persuaded him to bring her the gay and full outfit of a young Court gallant, and offered to run away with him."

"And then?" I cried, for my father stopped in the middle of his recital to laugh, as though he were telling a good joke.

"Then the next night, while the king was at supper, she managed to escape with this silly loon. It seems that they went away under the trees, both of them dressed like gay cavaliers, until they came to a spot where two horses where waiting for them. Then they both mounted, the maid I am told having the firmer seat of the two, and galloped away together. By this time night had come on, and then before this addlepate, Charles Fitzroy by name, knew where he was, he found himself alone. The girl had galloped away with his horse, and his fine attire, leaving him to get out of his sc.r.a.pe as best he could."

Again my father stopped to laugh.

"But how do you know the truth of this?" I cried.

"Oh, it was easy to know," replied my father. "Young Master Fitzroy rode around through the night, calling vainly for his lady-love until daylight, and presently happened upon another love-sick swain who had also been away love-making. Master Fitzroy was so overcome with grief that he actually told the other all that had happened."

"But was he not punished by the king?"

"As to that," replied my father, "he knew enough not to return to brave the king's anger. He ran away to Holland, and the king having been much beholden to Fitzroy's father hath not sent after him. Nevertheless, Charles was very angry. He was much struck with the maid's beauty; moreover, from what I can hear, his discomfiture hath been much laughed at by the wits of the town. Oh, the maid was clever, there can be no doubt of that, and verily she hath made me believe, almost in spite of myself, in the virtue of women."

"But you said you know where she is now," I said, for although my heart rejoiced at what I had heard, I longed much to know how she fared after these long weary months of my imprisonment.

"Did I say that?" said my father. "Then I said too much; but methinks I may be able to tell you that which may set you thinking."

"What?" I cried feverishly.

"As you know," went on my father, "the bishops and clergy of the Episcopal Church have prevailed on the king to pa.s.s stringent laws concerning these prating Puritans. In truth these men of G.o.d have so hedged them around, that a Nonconformist is nearly as badly placed as were Protestants during the reign of Mary. They are not allowed to preach, or to pray, except according to the bishops' will. In fact they are hardly able to live at all, for they be hunted like foxes and rats from one place to another. It is true they ought to subscribe to the Prayer-book, and take all the oaths which the king prescribes, but you see they will not. Thus they are fined and imprisoned by the hundreds."

"I have heard this," I cried; "but what hath it to do with the whereabouts of Constance?"

"I am coming to that," replied my father; "and the less you interrupt me the sooner you will know all I have to tell. As a consequence of these laws, there be hundreds of families without homes or friends, whom G.o.d must indeed pity. They have no shelter but the hedgeside; no food but what is free to the rabbits and the fowls of the air. Many of them were parish ministers, and since the Act of Uniformity and the other Acts their condition hath been piteous. Of course they be fools, for why cannot they swallow their scruples and be done with it? But they will not. The clergy refuse to be episcopally ordained, and they will continue to preach, and hence the trouble. Well, it seems that a Master Leslie, who was own cousin to Sir John, was one of these Presbyterian or Independent ministers who refused to be ordained by a bishop, and thus he was cast into the lanes, with a wife and six children. For a long time I suppose he had no shelter but the hedges, for the farmers were afraid even to give them a hiding place in their barns. At length, however, a farmer was brave enough to give them shelter in an outhouse; at any rate, he did not inform the vicar or the magistrates about them.

Some say he even brought them food, but concerning that I have no certain knowledge. About a fortnight ago, however, the magistrates heard of them, and sent the constables to take them, on what pretext I don't know. It seems that just as the constables were entering the barn they saw a woman come out, and one of them swears it was Mistress Constance Leslie."

"Where was this?" I cried.

"At a parish about three miles from Bedford; I have forgotten the name."

"And how long ago?"

"I have just told you; it was about a fortnight ago."

"And was the constable sure it was she?"

"He can take his oath to it, he saith; he also rushed after her to take her, but she escaped in the darkness. Some say she tripped the constable up, and blew out the candle in his lantern. However, it may be all a mistake, especially as since that time the whole district hath been searched, and nought hath come of it. Especially hath search been made at Goodlands, the place which belonged to Sir John Leslie, but not a sight of her hath there been."

"And what hath become of Goodlands?" I asked, with a fast beating heart.

"Oh, it still appertaineth to the Leslies. It seems that the king is still determined to capture the pretty Constance, and so he hath done nought by Sir John's estates except to appropriate the rents. He believes that sooner or later the daughters will claim their property, and by this means he will be able to lay hands upon them. I am told that at present one of Leslie's farmers lives in the house."

I did not speak concerning this, nevertheless my heart beat high with hope. I had heard Constance say that when she was once in her father's house at Goodlands she had no fear of searchers. Was it not possible that she had escaped thither, and was still in hiding? I knew that her heart would go out in sympathy with the distressed clergyman who had been driven from his parish, and his vicarage, and that she would seek to bring him food and comfort. What more likely then than my father's story was true. But as I have said I was silent, for I knew that he would not be likely to think of her as I did.

"That is all there is to tell," he said presently, and I saw that his eyes rested searchingly on me, as though he would read the thoughts in my mind.

"What are you going to do?" he continued at length.

"I am going to find her," I said.

"And then?"

"I do not know," I replied, for although I was sure I had seen the light of love in her eyes that night when we stood in the presence of the king, I was afraid she had forgotten all about me during the long weary months I had been lying in prison.

"But what would you?" he asked.

"I would wed her," I replied.

"What, wed the daughter of a regicide!" he cried. "Wed a woman with a price set upon her head! Destroy all your chances in life, and that for no benefit to you save to satisfy a mad fancy!"

"What would you do if you were in my place, father?" I asked. "If Constance were my mother and you were my age, what would you do?"

For a moment my father's lips quivered, and then I knew that although he had become more cynical than of old, his heart was still warm towards the memory of my mother, and towards me his only son.

"But can you do aught? I tell you it is only through the influence of the king's brother that I have obtained your liberty. If his Majesty discovers that you have in aught tried to help this woman he will have no mercy. Doubtless he is easygoing as far as the State is concerned; for that matter his best friends see that he is ruining the country over which he pretends to reign. But he is bitter in his private hatreds. See how he hath treated those who had aught to do with his father's death.

Not one shred of mercy hath he shewn. All are hanged, or imprisoned, save those who have escaped across the seas. You, Roland, have thwarted his will, and he believes that it is because this maid cares for you, that she fled from Windsor that night. I tell you he will have no mercy, and even although I have found the weak side of Duke James of York, I could do nothing for you."

"Still I must find her if I can."

"But you can do no good. If she hath a hiding-place you will only endanger her by trying to find her."

"No; I will not endanger her," I cried. "Besides, I know not what she may be suffering; I do not know what difficulty she hath in evading those who would place her under the king's power."

"You know her hiding-place?" said my father.

"No, I do not know it," I replied; "I can only guess."

"I tell you Goodlands is watched closely, and the whole countryside is watched. If she is anywhere in the district then----," and my father shrugged his shoulders, French fashion, as he ceased to speak.

"Then she needs me all the more."

"Oh, you fool, you fool!" said my father, and yet I thought his voice was kind and caressing.

"Look here," he went on presently. "I have influence with Duke James of York, who I verily believe will soon be king. Charles will not live to be an old man. He cannot. No man can live long who spends his days and nights as he doth. And let me tell you this: Duke James doth not think unkindly of you, if Charles doth. Even now I can put you into the way of advancement, for Duke James hath much power. If you give up all thoughts of this woman I can even yet promise you a career. The duke thought you a dashing youth with a ready wit and a strong arm. But if you do what is in your heart to do, I can see nothing for you but the prison or the gallows."

"Neither," I cried boldly, for what he had said had made me brave and hopeful.