Chapter XIV The Sanctuary Violated
“The key is in the keeping of the Church.”
At the actual moment when Father Bertram, at the beginning of the interview recorded in the last chapter, uttered these words, the door of the chapel was literally in the Church’s charge, in the person of the stout lay-brother, who, hearing footsteps and voices without, now stood with his broad shoulders leaning against the oak. He could hear but little of the conversation through the thick door, but he guessed it had to do with his lady, and concluded that De Breauté had tracked her to her hiding-place.
For a time he remained uncertain how to act. Churchman as he was, it seemed almost impossible to him that any one, even a brutal soldier, should dare to violate the sanctuary of the chapel; but yet he feared that those without were plotting to carry off the Lady Aliva.
At length, when all was quiet again outside, he crossed the little building, and knocked gently at the door of the sacristy. It was opened by his mother, who laid her finger upon her lips as a sign to him to keep silence.
“My lady sleeps,” she whispered, and shut the door again. Evidently no advice was to be had from her.
Uncertain whither to turn for aid, he recrossed the chapel, and, for the first time since Aliva had sought refuge in it, unbarred the door and looked out.
It was now past midnight. The village was sunk in silence, and no one was to be seen about. His first idea was to make his way towards Bedford, and he passed half across the bridge over the dark river. Then he fancied he heard the sound of a horse’s hoof echoing from a distance through the stillness of the night. Though he knew it not, it was the sound of De Breauté spurring towards Bedford.
But another sight close at hand called off his attention. Through the gloom he became distinctly aware of a tall, armed figure leaning against the parapet of the bridge.
“Gramercy!” he said to himself, stopping short; “here is one of the soldiers on guard! There can be no escape this way. St. Benedict aid us!”
Of course, unaware that in a few minutes the man would be withdrawn, the lay-brother retraced his steps. Next he met the other man-at-arms leading the horses toward his comrade, and his heart sank within him at what he imagined were further measures to guard the Bedford road. He passed the soldier unchallenged in the dark, and then a little further met a man coming towards the chapel.
It was the priest, straight from his conclave with De Breauté.
Bertram de Concours approached the lay-brother.
“A brother servant in the ministry of Holy Church, an I mistake not,” said he.
“Nay, reverend father,” returned the Benedictine, “but a lay-brother I, of the holy house of Alban.”
“And I,” returned the other, “am but the unworthy priest who serves the altar of St. Nicolas in yonder chapel. But the chapel,” he continued, eying the lay-brother closely, “is occupied by other than its priest to-night. A lady hath sought sanctuary there. She must be guarded, watched, tended.”
The Benedictine was puzzled. The voice sounded to him like the voice of him whom he had heard talking with De Breauté without the chapel door. Should he ask his advice and help? He was the priest of the chapel; surely he was to be trusted.
“Tended she hath been by my mother,” he answered, “and I myself have watched and guarded the chapel door. But she must remove hence. It is not fit that our fair lady of Bletsoe should remain in this plight, tended by peasants only. She must to her father’s house.”
Bertram saw his opportunity.
“Sooth, thou speakest truly, brother,” he said. “I would fain despatch her thither. Not that I quite make out her case,” he continued craftily. “My people do tell me that yester evening a lady came into the village in sore plight, and leading a steed well-nigh ridden to death, and thou sayest she is the Lady de Pateshulle. She should to Bletsoe. But can she walk?”
“Walk, father! nay, in good sooth. For all my mother’s care she is so weary with her ride that she even now sleeps. Besides, do ladies such as she tramp the country roads like a churl’s wench? And her palfrey cannot carry her!”
“She should be carried thither in a litter,” replied Bertram de Concours; “but whither shall we fetch one? A messenger must forthwith to Bletsoe, and acquaint the noble house of De Pateshulle with its lady’s need, and that at once.”
The bait was thrown out by which he hoped to remove the lay-brother out of the way. The fish rose.
“I am thy messenger, father,” responded the Benedictine with eagerness. “I will myself to Bletsoe, and devise means to transport my lady thither in safety and comfort.”
“By my faith, brother,” exclaimed Bertram, in simulated gratitude, “thou hast well spoken. A burden is lifted from my heart. Haste thee, and see that help is here by dawn. But tarry a moment,” he continued, still weaving his treacherous web; “we must to the chapel and let the lady know that aid is at hand, and that she will shortly be quit of this dangerous and unpleasant position.”
The two men entered the chapel. The old woman was still watching by the sleeping girl, but hearing steps, she came out of the sacristy.
“Tell thy mother to warn her charge that she may expect to journey shortly,” said the priest.
“But my lady still sleeps softly,” objected the good woman.
“Then let her know when she awakens that thy son hath gone to Bletsoe for aid, and that help she shall have shortly, and means of travelling hence,” said Father Bertram.
Mistress Hodges returned to the sacristy.
“My lady is awakened,” she said. “She heard your voices. Ye should have spoken more softly. She needs yet rest.”
“Go thou then to the door,” said Bertram to the lay-brother. “She knows thy voice, but I am a stranger. Tell her what thou purposest to do.”
The Benedictine did as he was bid. Standing at the half-open door, he announced in a few words that he was off to Bletsoe for help.
Aliva, barely aroused, sank back again into slumber, murmuring words of thanks to her messenger.
“And now haste thee on thy road,” said the priest to the lay-brother; “I myself will watch the chapel door.”
The latter set off. He did not again attempt to cross the bridge, still guarded as he imagined by De Breauté and his men, or he would now have found it clear of sentinels. He made his way along the right bank of the river to the ford at Milton in the dark quietness of the small hours that precede the dawn. But ere he reached the spot which had so well-nigh proved fatal to him some few weeks before, the birds had begun to twitter in the brushwood and the sedge, and on the eastern horizon
“Lightly and brightly breaks away
The morning from her mantle gray.”
In the uncertain light he became aware that a horseman was in front of him, trying apparently to force a wearied steed through the ford. As he approached, a clearer view revealed the rider to be none other than Dicky Dumpling, the fat porter.
“Soho, soho, Dickon! And whither so early, or so late, as you will?”
Thus apostrophized, Dicky turned his horse and recognized the lay-brother.
“St. Dunstan be praised! Here is a friend from Bletsoe. O brother, there is ill news—a sore mishap! Our Lady Aliva is chased, and carried captive too, for aught I know, by that devil in man’s shape, Fulke de Breauté, or his brother. The livelong night have I sought her on the road ’twixt here and Elstow, over marsh and bank, up hill and down dale. Not a bite or a sup—”
“Peace, Dicky, and cheer thy heart. Thy lady is safe.”
“Safe, thou sayest? Oh, the saints be praised!—safe?”
“As safe as Holy Church can make her,” replied the other. “She hath found refuge in the chapel on Bromham Bridge.”
Dumpling gave a vast sigh of satisfaction, and his face once more assumed its usual jolly expression.
“That was it then! Beshrew me for a fool! I found her palfrey in Bromham village, and though I asked up and down among the folks, no one could tell me aught of the lady. Even the women, whose tongues go fast enow, like the clapper of a bell at vespers time, when they are not wanted, had nothing to say. Gramercy! safe in the chapel! But you, brother, what doest here?”
“On an errand thou canst well relieve me of. Four legs are better than two. Thy Dobbin has still enow strength left in him to carry him back to his manger. So haste thee, good Dickon, with all speed thou mayest, and bid them at Bletsoe Castle send quickly a litter for my lady to bear her home. She is weary and weak. I, meantime, will return to her. Somehow it mislikes me leaving her alone with priests and women, when those devil’s servants, the Breauté varlets, are about. And ’twill cheer her heart to hear good news of thee, for she misdoubted some mishap to thee also.”
“I fall not lightly, brother,” replied Dicky. “The armed men came with the rush of a battering-ram. But thanks to St. Dunstan and the muddy roads, I got off scathless.—And now, Dobbin—to our oats, Dobbin, to our oats; and to our lady’s aid.”
The lay-brother, much relieved in his mind, hurriedly retraced his steps. It was broad daylight as he once more approached the chapel, and while yet at a distance he plainly perceived a little crowd gathered at the door.
A horse-litter, consisting of a kind of curtained couch resting on two poles, borne by two stout horses, was in waiting. On the foremost horse rode a groom. Another mounted man stood by, leading a spare saddle-horse.
As the lay-brother drew nearer, he saw three figures issue from the chapel, and recognized the Lady Aliva, his mother, and Father Bertram.
Struck with astonishment that the desired conveyance should have appeared so speedily, the Benedictine halted in the middle of the road. Then the truth flashed upon him.
It was impossible that the litter could have come from Bletsoe. There must be treachery afoot.
A glance at the De Breauté livery worn by the mounted groom confirmed his suspicion.
Without a moment’s hesitation he rushed forward, exclaiming in warning tones,—
“Mother! my lady! Stay, stay! for God’s sake stay!” and as he spoke he stretched out a detaining hand towards the litter.
But ere he could grasp it, the priest, who had been assisting Aliva into the conveyance, turned sharply round, and with the key of the chapel door, which he still held in his hand, dealt the Benedictine a heavy blow on the head.
Then he shouted to the postillion to hurry off, and himself jumping on to the spare saddle-horse, followed the litter towards Bedford, leaving the lay-brother senseless and bleeding on the road, his mother bending over him.