A Traveller in Time (30 page)

“That's a Darbyshire song I've been learning for Anthony, and I shall sing it on Christmas Day to the company which assembles here. Do you like it, Penelope?”

“Yes, oh yes,” I cried, clasping my hands. “Is there any more, Mistress Babington?”

She turned the page, and I stood at the window by the curtain watching her serene young face as she sang to me.

The sweet notes of the plaintive air and the tinkling of the virginal flowed through the timeless world where I stood, and I thought it was the ringing of bells of ice high in the winter sky. Then the music died away, and there was silence, and Mistress Babington bowed her head, her hands resting on the instrument, on the painted panel of our river Darrand swinging for ever through its valley of rocks. In my mind rang the carol I had heard. The bed, the flood, the thorn, and the moon shining bright, all belonged to Thackers, and in the stable like that across the yard was the Holy Child born. At midnight the shepherds would come from the fields to see the Child lying in Thackers' manger. Even now they were on the hillside with their flock, the ancient shepherd and his companions, listening to the song of the angels.

“Penelope,” said Mistress Babington, and she rose from her seat and came to me. “I am happy to-day, for I have had news from Heaven itself and my prayers are answered. I am going to have a babe, to be born here at Thackers, to be brought up in this lovely country, and he will play in the garden and run round the stacks and ride over the hills just as his father and grandfather did when they were little. He will be the heir to our lands, and perhaps when he is full-grown England will be at peace, and these wounds of religious hatred will be healed.”

She put her arm round my shoulder and kissed my lips. Yet even as we two stood looking happily at one another there was a wild clatter of hooves from the road and the gate was flung open. Anthony galloped into the yard, his horse covered with sweat and such a look on his face as filled us with terror. We both rushed to the door, and he threw himself off and staggered in with half-shut eyes, blinking in a dazed way like a bird caught in a snare. Francis followed from the stable, and Mistress Foljambe came running downstairs white as a ghost, trembling with apprehension. Mistress Babington clasped his arm as he strove to speak.

“What is it, Anthony? What has happened?” she asked.

“Listen all of you,” he panted, choking on the words. “We are ruined. We are discovered.” He groaned and sank to a seat, shivering violently. “The queen, Mary Stuart. We cannot save her now,” he muttered, as all waited horror-stricken.

“What is it, Anthony? Tell us Anthony. All may not be lost,” said Mistress Babington, instantly brave to face whatever might come.

“They've discovered the secret passage at Wingfield, where it starts in the underground hall. They noticed the covering stone had been disturbed, although it was well concealed, and they found the tunnel. Then they buzzed like a hive of bees. The queen is to be moved as soon as possible, to Tutbury, to that damp and gloomy castle where she was so ill formerly. It will be her death to go. Only three months at Wingfield, and her freedom so near.”

“Do they know about your tunnel here?” asked Mistress Foljambe. “The Wingfield tunnel was blocked, and they cannot know where it leads without many days of excavation. They will never guess it goes to Thackers.”

“That is true. It is my hope they will discover nothing, but the queen will be moved and my plan destroyed.” Anthony groaned again, but his wife took fresh life from the knowledge that the plot was not discovered.

“Only the Earl of Shrewsbury knows the connection between the two manor houses, and he showed me the shaft. His grandfather told him the story of a tunnel made through the hill-side many generations earlier, and as a boy he saw the entrance. He walked along and found the way blocked, and it is this passage that has been exposed by some unlucky chance. He told nobody about the secret way, and it never seemed to have any importance until the rumour came that the queen was to live at Wingfield. Then he revealed the entrance to me, and together we explored the ground. I have told nobody where it is. The queen can face her questioners with a calm denial. I was waiting till we bored through the complete length before I unfolded my plans to others.”

“Then why should the tunnel be discovered?” asked Francis. “They will surely see the queen couldn't escape by a blocked passage.”

“They will be rightly suspicious, for Mary Stuart has tried to escape from prison many a time. Remember Loch Leven! The least occasion sets them agog with inquiries. They may think that somebody intended to enter Wingfield that way to get in touch with Her Grace. Obviously the tunnel hasn't been used, but if we had got a little farther the queen might have been on her way to France now.”

“And Thackers would have been destroyed and all in it,” whispered Mistress Babington.

Anthony took no notice. “They will search the farms and manors in the district for any clues,” he said, “and as ours is the nearest house of importance, and I am already suspect, they will come here first.”

“Then quickly fill in the shaft at Thackers and cover all traces,” cried Mistress Foljambe. “Anthony! Pull yourself together. Call Tom Snowball and fetch the men out of the tunnel. Even their tapping might be heard.”

“They are not in it, as it is Christmas Eve. I gave them a holiday and for two days there has been no work down there, otherwise they might have been heard at Wingfield.”

“All the better. Fill in the shaft and hide all before they come.” Mistress Babington spoke bravely, fired with new hope, for she had been wellnigh fainting as Anthony talked.

“But the queen!” cried Anthony, and he sank down again, his head in his hands. “The queen! Why should we trouble to do anything now! We can't save her, our work was for nothing. She is going to be taken away. Do you realize? Our plan is broken and our hopes destroyed. Never was there such a great chance to save her, and it is lost! I don't care what happens now.”

“Anthony!” Mistress Babington knelt by his side, imploring him. “Anthony! Save yourself! For my sake, and for the sake of your unborn child!”

“For the sake of Thackers,” cried Mistress Foljambe, and Francis shook his arm in anger. He rose wearily and went out with Francis to call Tom Snowball and Adam. At once they carried stones and timbers to cover up the disturbed earth, but the ground was frozen and scarred, and the freshly disturbed soil betrayed them. Unlike the earlier shaft, hidden in the old barn under earth and bracken, this one was obviously a recent excavation.

I returned to the kitchen to whisper the sad news to Dame Cicely. The old woman went quietly on with her work as if she had known all the time, but it was the fatalism of her nature which made her accept so calmly the blows of destiny.

“It was not to be. Poor lady, she is doomed,” she murmured. “But Master Anthony, we must save him,” she cried with sudden resolution. “If they find the shaft and long tunnel they will know all, and they'll come here first as he is lord of the manor. We can keep the pretence of lead-mining with the short unfinished shafts, but not with this.”

“What can we do?” I clutched her arm in my anxiety and trouble.

“We can pray to God to help us,” said Dame Cicely, and on her face came a transfigured look. Together we hurried across the little grassplat to the church. It was dark inside except for the candles burning on the altar, and we knelt down in the rustling straw and prayed for God's help, for confusion to the searchers and deliverance for Thackers. “But if it be Thy will,” added Dame Cicely slowly, fumbling for her words, “if it be Thy will that all be discovered, then give us courage, good Lord, to face disaster bravely and to die if needs be.” We rose from our knees confident in a Divine help for the house we both served.

The fir branches and holly wreaths which decked the rood-screen shone darkly in the faint light of the candles, and a lantern flickered for a moment as Anthony and Francis went across the churchyard to the head of the shaft. We returned to the house, and went on with the cooking, for none in the village must suspect when they came for the mumming, and Sir Ralph Sadleir's men would be less suspicious if they saw the ordinary preparations of a country house in progress.

The excavations were covered with branches and earth spread over the surface. Tools were cleaned and put away, but there were many traces of broken ground and torn grassy banks, and footprints deep in frozen mud. The men could do no more and Anthony went to his room to destroy papers if the house should be searched, and to hide others in the wood-stack in the orchard.

I stood in the porch and looked out, waiting for a miracle to happen, waiting for God to send fire from heaven to destroy the searchers, or a cohort of white-robed flaming angels to fly down with swords to defend our beloved Thackers. I had infinite faith in Dame Cicely's prayer.

Jude was on the hill-side, on the look-out for the horsemen, ready to give warning when he sensed their approach, for although he was deaf, he knew by other means. But the old house wore its usual air of peacefulness, an ancient manor house prepared for Christmas, with horses in the stable, and cattle in the byres, and a great fire burning in the hall, and cooking and cheer in the kitchen.

Again I went to the porch and looked up in the clear sky at the glittering stars, at Orion serene over the great woods, and Sirius cold and brilliant, and the Great Bear, the homely constellation beloved by shepherds and farmers. A meteorite sped down the dark blue heavens, leaving a trail of gold, and I made my wish for Anthony. Surely God would send a host of shooting-stars to fling their arrows against the invader of this tranquillity! I thought of the sorrowing queen, and poor Anthony Babington with his hopes dashed, with cruel tragedy coming up that slope of hill-side in the east, to separate him from his wife and the unborn child.

Christmas Eve! Already the shepherds were starting to Bethlehem! O God, be quick!

The stars slowly faded as I stood there, the brightness was dimmed, a cloud seemed to move over the surface of the heavens and an icy stillness made me shiver with apprehension. Then there was a sound, so faint that I felt it with my own extreme consciousness, a movement as the earth listened also. A few feathers of snow shimmered through the air, then more and more, great flakes came fluttering down, caught in their beauty by the light from an unshuttered window, heralding a snowstorm.

“If it snows the traces will be hidden, and the ground covered so that they won't find out,” I thought, my heart beating wildly. “Will it be in time? Will it be heavy enough? Will it hide the scars before the searchers come?” I asked myself.

At the same moment I heard the dull tramp of feet. My heart leapt again to choke me. They were coming already, and the snow had not whitened the ground. I stood waiting, waiting. But merry voices came from the dark figures who turned in at the drive, and dancing gleams of light came through the bare trees. These were no horsemen seeking plotters against the throne, but villagers carrying lanterns on long poles, prancing on wooden steeds, mocking and laughing and singing snatches of song. They were the mummers, coming for the festival of Christmas Eve.

Their faces were masked, some had cow-horns and the antlers of deer fastened to their heads, others wore devil's tails. Dark cloaks hung from their shoulders, concealing their multi-coloured jerkins, their painted bladders and jesters' toys and wooden swords. They came up the drive to the front of the house and the dogs rushed out barking wildly. Mistress Babington put her hand on her heart, near fainting, and Anthony caught his breath when he heard the sound, but in a minute all was laughter, as the men's voices could be heard talking in good broad Darbyshire.

“Are we ready? Are ye in good voice? Now, Dick Woodiwiss, and Will Bestwick, and Robin Clay. Get ye ready. Pipe up! Give it 'em tunefully, and don't beat so masterful on the tabor, Sam Taylor, or ye'll drown our words. Now! Men! Give it 'em.”

They all sang in harmony, with the beating tabor and a flute and pipe, the Wassailing song:

The powerful manly voices came ringing through the air, and the snow fell in a mad dance upon their hooded and cloaked figures, upon the flickering lanterns and the flaming torches and the wooden horse-heads which some of them rode.

“It's snowing,” I sobbed, as I rushed indoors and clasped Aunt Cicely. “The mummers have come and it's snowing.”

“God be thanked,” cried Dame Cicely. “He has answered our prayer. This day he has saved Thackers and all the people in it.”

She knelt down on the sanded floor and clasped her hands together, and I stood there awed by the deep content on her furrowed face. Above her hung the kissing-bunch, and the Christmas holly and bay, and the firelight played on her white coif and her dark-stained hands. Then she rose from her knees, took a lantern and flung wide the door.

“Come ye all in! Welcome! Welcome Dick Woodiwiss, and Robin Clay, and William Bestwick, and Will Archer and all. You've come in good time and brought real Christmas weather with you. There's plenty to eat and drink, and Mistress Babington and Master Anthony will be pleased to hear thy songs and see thy play-acting,” she cried.