A king's ransom. By the author of 'The martyrs of the Cornhill'

Front matter

THE " ANCIENT HOUSE," OLD BUTTER MARKET, IPSWICH a king;s ransom. BT THE AUTHOR OP "THE MARTYRS OF THE CORNHILL." Ipstcirl) : PAWSEY AND HAYES, the ahoient house. lonSon : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL AND CO., BTATIONKRB' HALL COURT. [COPYRIGHT.] " Now, true love No such effects doth prove ; That is an essence far more gentle, fine, Pure, perfect, nay, divine ; It is a golden chain let down from heaven, Whose links are bright and even : That falls like sleep on lovers, and combines The soft and sweetest minds In equal knots." CONTENTS. PAGE

Chapter I. London Bridge

It was a brilliant afternoon, in the summer of the year of grace 1651. Even late in the day the August sun was intolerably fierce. Out in the open country, the work of ripening corn and fruit was almost done ; here, in London city, the rays beat down into crowded alleys and narrow lanes, and made them close and sultry, like the streets of an Eastern town. But nowhere did the sunbeams rest more gaily than on the broad bosom of the river Thames. They shone upon the stately palaces and beautiful gardens with which its banks were lined, caught the edges of the leaves rustling in the breeze, and sparkled in a thousand lights upon the rippled surface of the water. There was scarcely a view in all England which, for historic and picturesque interest, could equal the sight from old London Bridge. To the North rose the still graceful structure of St. Paul's Cathedral.

The beautiful spire, for centuries the pride of the city, had been burnt down in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and an insignificant tower substituted for it. The South transept, designed by Inigo Jones, had been hastily pulled down by the Parliament for the sake of the scaffolding, and part of the Cathedral with it ; and the interior had been sadly desecrated by the Puritans. Still however, to outward seeming, the building was the noblest in London. Close to the end of the Bridge stood a confused mass of houses, the hall and offices, as we should now call them, of the Fishmongers' Guild. Somewhat shorn of their splendour were these Fishmongers, since the rigid Puritan regime had B abolished the demand for fish in Lent. One branch of their profit had been struck at, but, in a great seafaring country like England, the Fishmongers were always certain to rank among the chief commercial Guilds.

Nearer the Bridge the houses were crowded together in strange proximity. Further on, where the streets were wider and fewer, the river swept round in a grand curve, bound in, not by stiff embankments, or a ragged border of mud and rotting hovels, but fringed to the water's edge with a beautiful, varied line of palaces, houses, gardens, and stately water gates, designed by the first artists in Europe. The road stretched on to the twin town of Westminister, where the houses grew thicker again round the beautiful Abbey Church of Edward the Confessor. This noble street of palaces somewhat resembled the buildings on the canals of Venice, save that every house was embowered in trees. For in those days, when locomotion by land presented innumerable difficulties, the Thames was the great highway of London.

Every house of the better class had its private landing-place and boat, and the broad river was always covered with barges, wherries, gaily painted skiffs, and craft of all kinds. On a fine summer afternoon, the citizens of London were accustomed to take the air on the river by hundreds. In the distance, plainly visible across the streets and gardens, orchards and fields, which lay between, rose the wooded heights of Hampstead and Highgate, and Harrow beyond them, a conspicuous landmark for miles. From the London of that day to these outlying districts all was open country, and the same strange sight of trees and green fields stretched along the Surrey side of the . river. For perhaps half a mile inland there were a few streets, but only one was continued in a straight, unbroken line, the great highway which ran to Dover and Canterbury.

Not far from the Bridge foot, as the Southwark end of the Bridge was called, was the splendid palace of the Bishop of Winchester. He, poor man, like all his brother prelates, had fared badly in the rapid vicissitudes of the times. The Puritans, to whom Prelacy was only less obnoxious than Popery, had sent him about his business as soon as they obtained the upper hand. His palace had been first turned into a prison by the Parliament, and then, the necessity being urgent for ready money, it had been sold, some two years before, to the highest bidder. But the Bridge itself was even more wonderful than the view from it. Not a wide, open space, with low walls and broad pavements : but a street of tall, narrow houses, with all the picturesque defects of the architecture of those days. It was supported by eighteen piers of different shapes and sizes, and upon these piers, or "starlings" as they were called, as many houses w-ere crowded together as sjmce would permit.

These were mostly built across from side to side, a covered passages as dark as a tunnel, being pierced through them, along which passengers painfully groped their way. One huge house, a fantastically carved wooden building, called Nonsuch House, had been erected upon the arches of the Bridge, and common report declared that it had been brought over from Holland in pieces, and put together with wooden pegs. A little further on was an ancient chapel, curiously built into one of the buttresses, the basement of which could be entered by steps from the river below. Huge waterworks stood upon the northern end ; and at the Bridge foot there were four corn mills, built out on stakes, and projecting far into the river. The Bridge had this awkward peculiarity, that the houses were continualljfalling down, sometimes as many as forty at once.

Considering the traffic, however, and the mass of buildings which, in the course of centuries, had accumulated on its piers, the wonder was, not that the houses occasionally fell, but that the whole colossal structure had not long since subsided. To a casual observer, standing on the Bridge that warm August afternoon, it might have seemed as if the warlike deeds, which had often been enacted on it in former days, were about to be repeated. Some unusual agitation among the people was visible. The Bridge was thronged with armed men hastening across it by twos and threes, or singly, up from the great Kent Road, and the various other ways which met at the Bridge foot. Most of them were accoutred in leather jerkins, long heavy boots, and steel helmets. A few were fully armed with cuirasses, shoulder pieces, and greaves, while all had swords at their sides, and long pikes a king's bansom. in their hands.

Now and then a horseman clattered between the high, dark houses, with still bigger boots, and heavier breast-plate, and longer sword. Upon the face of every man was a look of solemn determination. They were going to fight, these grim Ironsides, and to fight under the Lord General Cromwell meant to conquer ; but not a feature betrayed their inward satisfaction. Yet they held their heads high, like men who knew their own worth. Time was when these Puritans had crept into holes and corners, or had been forced, cap in hand, to ask leave to live of their Cavalier opponents. Now, such of the Cavaliers as ventured to appear slunk along the streets, keeping out of sight as much as possible. But even these were few ; for most of the Royalists were either up in the North with the Scotch Arniy, or lying hidden in their own or their friends' houses, trying, and often in vain, to escape the vigilance of their enemies.

All this commotion, on the Bridge and elsewhere, was occasioned by a young man, scarcely out of his teens, known variously as the man of sin, Charles Stuart, the King of Scots, or spoken of by the Royalists with bated breath as "the King." Early in the morning of this day the news had flown through London that this youth, who had already by a bold stroke penetrated into England, was in full march with his army' of Scots and Cavaliers for the capital. The Lord Genera], who was following closely at his heels, had sent an express for every able-bodied man to arm and join him, and all the old Puritan soldiers were flocking up to London, meaning to push on from thence into the Midland Counties, whither the tide of battle had turned. In the centre of the Bridge was an open space, formerly much used for lists and tournaments.

It formed an excellent breathing place, where the passengers, emerging hot and stifled from the dark tunnel of the houseways, were glad to pause, and enjoy the fresh air which came up from the river. Here a couple of workmen were busily employed in examining and repairing part of the under structure of the Bridge. A young man stood w-atching them absently. He was tall and finely made, and his long hair and picturesque dress showed him to be one of the proscribed party of Royalists. Evidently much time and care had been bestowed upon the rich dark curls which fell over his shoulders, and his glossy moustache and small pointed beard were carefully trimmed after the fashion of the late " martyred " king. He wore a broad, plumed, felt hat, leather boots coming to the knee and frilled with lace, long gauntleted gloves and huge spurs ; the rest of his dress was hidden under his riding cloak.

But one glance at his noble forehead and broad eager brow sufficed to show that he was no fop. He seemed, indeed, far too pre-occupied and in too great haste, to concern himself about the impression a Royalist might make in this hot-bed of Puritanism. For the last ten minutes he had been curbing his impatience with difficulty. Sometimes he peered restlessly down the lane of dark houses on either side of the Bridge ; sometimes he walked to and fro along the parapet, and looked down into the sparkling water below. Anon, he took up his station near one of the buttresses, and tried to school himself to patience by watching the men. " A plague upon this job ! " said one of them, lifting his ruddy face from a link of the chain he had been carefully testing. " Belike it will never be needed ; the Bridge will never be attacked.

Oliver knows his work too well to suffer those Malignant rogues to come thus far." " Friend," quoth the other man, gravely, " thy speech is ill-considered. Firstly, it savoureth not of the Gospel, but rather of that profane sin of swearing. Secondly, thou hast spoken lightly of dignities, and Holy Writ saith we should give honour to those that are set in authority over us." " Out upon you, Master Jeremiah ! " returned his companion, testily. "What harm lieth in my words? An I said, ' A plague on't ' ; I meant but to signify the plagues of Egypt. And verily 'tis a plague of Egypt to work in this heat." " Grudge not thy labour for the Lord's elect," said the second workman. "Did not worthy Master Full-of-Love Stivers bid us, at the last monthly fast, ' whatsoever we did, to do it unto the Lord ' 1 And, prithee, how wouldest thou be better occupied than in labouring to keep those accursed Malignants out of the Lord's city of London 1 " " To keep them out, say you 1 Wh}-, man, they stand at our very elbow," rejoined his irritable companion.

And touching his arm, he pointed to the stranger, whom neither of the men had noticed. " Ay, look at that now. Think you we keep the wolf from the fold, while these same fellows prowl about our city ? There's mischief within, and mischief without, I trow." His fellow looked at the Cavalier. "And what, sir, might your business be 1 " he said, insolently, without doffing his cap. " We would fain know wherefore you examine us thus. We like not such close watching at our work." The stranger started, and the blood shot up into his face, at being so familiarly accosted. His first impulse was to clap his hand to his sword, but the next moment he controlled himself. " Friend, I do thee no wrong," he answered, mildly. " Doth your Christian charity forbid a man to look at you ? May he not stand here awhile and take the air by the river ?

" "Ay, if he be of the Lord's people, not otherwise," replied the man. " An he be one of your drunken, ruffling, swearing Malignants, let him not come hither. Such an one is not fit to live. Away with him from the earth ! " None of these abusive epithets seemed applicable to the stranger, but the look of dignified contempt with which he met them appeared still further to incense the men. Laying aside their tools, they advanced towards him, as if ready to carry their words into effect. " Sir, we would have you to know," said the one, " that in the Lord's city of London we suffer none but the godly." "A Papist, Master Jeremiah!" muttered the other. " Think you not he hath the look of a spy ? " " None of the accursed brood of Papists and Prelati.sts will we harbour here. Get you gone in haste."

" We are two to one. 'Twere easiest to throw him into the river, and make au end of him forthwith." As good luck would have it, a fourth person intervened in what threatened to become a dangerous street fray. " Forbear ! " exclaimed a voice from behind, and a hand was suddenly laid upon the Royalist's shoulder. " Thou art here, Ralph ! I thank thee with all my heart," continued the new comer. " The Lord hath surely brought thee hither." Then, turning to the workmen, the speaker said : " Good, Christian brethren, I pray you, harm not this noble gentleman. He is mine own particular friend, and albeit not one of us, I will answer for his honour with my life." The Cavalier turned, and grasped his friend's hand. There was no fear in his eyes, only a look of relief, at his escape from so undignified a squabble.

Then both the friends smiled, as if the mere sight of each other were a happiness. The workmen slunk back to their task, and without further notice of them the new comer took his companion by the arm, and led him into a small recess formed by the solid masonry of the Bridge, where they could carry on their conversation undisturbed. Puritan and Cavalier ! It was a strange sight, in those fanatical days, to see two men, whose very dress proclaimed them of opposite creeds, in familiar discourse. For assuredly the last comer would not have found it so easy to extricate the Royalist from his precarious position, had not his stiff and sombre attire marked him out as a Puritan. He was younger by several years than his companion, slenderly made, and thin and worn. His close-cropped hair gave no relief to his pale face, and brought his small ears into unnatural prominence ; his forehead was high and narrow, the chin large, the lower jaw projecting.

Not a handsome man by an}- means, only redeemed, in fact, from absolute plainness by his large, dark eyes. Sometimes they kindled with sudden fire, sometimes they were soft and pensive ; and there was always an earnest, w-istful look in them, which attracted people in spite of themselves. Perhaps those eager eyes accounted partly for the glance of loving concern his friend cast at him, as they went across the Bridge. To outward appearance, no two men could be more unlike. The young Puritan's sad coloured coat, his plain hose, and the stiff linen collar and cuffs which had almost become the badge of his sect, did not differ more widely from the Cavalier's graceful, flowing dress, than did his spare figure from the other's splendid physique. And, as if to poiut the contrast between them, the Puritan limped slightly iu his walk, a sore defect in warlike times, when a man's life often depended on hi s strength and soundness of limb.

" Still lame, Roger ? " were the Cavalier's first words, as the friends reached the sheltering recess in the masonry, and sat down. " I heard thou hadst gotten a hurt. Hath it not healed ? " "Yea, Ralph, still lame," he answered, "else were I not here, and had not brought thee into this peril. Prithee, friend, forgive me. I knew not that our Puritan folk were so bitter against those of thy party." " The danger to me was nothing," rejoined the other with a curl of the lip. " I had knocked both the knaves over with a cut of my sword, an I had chosen to draw it. But leave that matter. I have come hither at some pains to myself, and since we are met at last, let us not waste our words on trifles. Tell me first news of thee and thine. How fares thy mother ? Aud thy foot, what is this trouble with it 1 " "My mother is well," answered Roger Sparowe, "and would greet thee heartily, knew she of our meeting.

Touching this foot of mine, 'tis an obstinate wound I had in Scotland last year, which will not fully heal, and the physicians cannot set it right- It troubleth me somewhat," he went on. " Here am I stayed in idleness, when I would fain be in my place in the Lord General's Army, fighting against the ungodly." " Whereof I am one," rejoined his friend with a smile. " I owe thy foot no grudge, then, since it keeps thee here, and gives us one enemy the less. Roger, dost know that, save for this foot of thine, we might be arrayed against each other in battle 1 " " The will of the Lord be done ! " said Roger, lapsing into a slightly drawling Puritanical tone. "A worthy minister in this city told me that the Lord hath oftentimes as much w-ork for them that bide at home, as for those that go forth to the fight.

And I strive to believe it, but faith is weak." Now it was noticeable that the Royalist, who had listened to the workmen's choice Biblical language with an ironical smile, winced whenever the same stilted phraseology fell from his friend's lips. But Roger Sparowe spoke in so earnest a tone, that his words carried conviction of his own belief in them, and the Cavalier listened in silence. " To our business ! " he said at last. " Prithee, friend, let it be brief. This very day was I to have taken my journey to the North, and I have delayed it only to come hither." As he spoke, he opened his cloak, and Roger saw that his friend was accoutred in the buff coat and small steel throat let, which was all the armour the Cavaliers deigned to wear, when opposed to such despised enemies as the Puritans.

" This is my business," said Roger, laying his hand on his friend's arm. " To pray thee, Ralph, as thou vainest thine own soul, not to join that impious army. Evil will come of it, of that I am fully persuaded. The Man of Sin shall not be suffered to work his will. He ' shall be taken out of the way, whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit of his mouth.' 'Twas at that text I opened my Bible in the evening exercise yesterday, and straightway, when I lighted upon it, I was constrained to send for thee, and pray thee not to go." " Forbear ! " cried the Cavalier, hotly. " Another word will cost thee our friendship. Roger, I had not thought it of thee, that thou couldest desire me to do this foul dishon our to mvself and our cause." " 'Tis no dishonour to do that which will save thy soul alive.

I tell thee, Ralph Wentworth, thou art fighting, not against man, but against the Lord." "Then let Him see to it," answered Wentworth, fiercely. " Of what worth is my poor soul beside our noble cause ? I give my body willingly in the King's service ; my soul may fare as it will." "Blaspheme not, friend," said Roger, solemnly. "Thy soul which I seek to save is more precious even than our friendship. Friendship is much, but what shall a man give, saith Holy Writ, in exchange for his soul 1 " "Ay, your souls, your souls!" retorted Wentworth, bitterly. " Ye think of naught but your own souls, ye Puritans. Ye have no thought to bestow upon honour, which is more than life itself. Look thee, Roger. Wilt thou not understand that a man may forget himself, body and soul, for the sake of another ? Can ye not endure it, ye Puritans, if a man is loyal to his king 1 " The hot blood rushed into Wentworth's face, and his dark eyes sparkled.

Not one of Cromwell's Ironsides could have looked sterner or more resolute. "Thou dost misapprehend," said Roger. "This king of thine, by whom thou settest such store, is no king, but a puppet in the hands of the Scots. 'Tis no man's duty to serve him." " He is my king," returned Wentworth, firmly. " Roger, thou wouldest make of me a craven coward, dishonoured and disgraced." " To fight in an evil cause is not honour." " Ours is no evil cause," rejoined Wentworth. " We fight for God, and king, and country, and none can take up arms more worthily. If thou speak of duty, know that the king hath a divine right to our allegiance, which no man, an he be not a rank rebel, can refuse him." " It lies not in the power of one man to rule over another's conscience," answered Roger. " God is our king.

We owe no allegiance to Cæsar. Shall we, who have felt the misery of one earthly king, choose us another 1 " " Hovy choose him ? " replied Wentworth, frowning. " How meanest thou that 1 Doth a man choose his father or mother 1 Neither can he choose under what king he will serve. The right to rule cometh of God, and not of man." "Alas, Ralph, I perceive that thou art yet in outer darkness," cried Roger. "Thine heart is enslaved by the prince of this world. The Lord grant thee light ! As for this mock king of thine, Charles Stuart, the boy who hath been playing at kingship awhile in the North, how hath he any claim on thee ? " "Roger, try me not too far," exclaimed Wentworth, fiercely, " Even from thee I cannot brook this. What ! would'st have me forsake the king, because he is poor and in trouble ?

He doth but need me, and every man who can help him, the more." " I would have thee think of thyself and of thy certain ruin. Thou art blind, Ralph, and dost not see that the king of Scots must fail. He hath but 10,000 men with him, half-hearted knaves, who follow him because their leaders drive them. And all England is against him. Hast ever heard yet that the Lord General and his Ironsides were beaten ? Come back, Ralph, and abide with me, and I pledge my own life that not a hair of thine head shall be hurt." " No more of this ! " cried Wentworth, half beside himself with indignation. " Is this the language which befits a Sparowe and a gentleman 1 I tell thee, the very stones would cry out against me, were I guilty of such base treachery. Ye are all the same, ye Puritans. Selfish are ye, every one of you."

" Selfish ! " cried Roger, with sparkling eyes. " Selfish, sayest thou, when I have risked our ancient friendship to plead with thee ? " The two friends stopped, and looked at each other. "Is it so, Roger ? " said AVentworth, more gently, after a pause. " Nay then, let us bethink ourselves, ere we suffer bitter words to part us." Roger's eyes grew moist. " I could almost give thee up, Ralph, even thee," he said, in a low voice, "did my conscience bid me." " It shall not be," answered Wentworth. " We will hold to each other, let happen what will to King or General. The war of creeds shall not part us ; we are too closely bound." " Would God it had been closer," said Roger, with a sigh. " Had Mary lived, she had made thee one of us, Ralph. She, perchance, had kept thee from rushing on thine own ruin."

Wentworth pushed away Roger Sparowe's hand. "It is not well to speak of these things," he said, hastily. "Thou doest not wisely, Roger, to stir sleeping sorrows. Enough that the past is past. 'Je me contente.' " * " The Lord's will be done ! " returned Roger. " But, oh ! 'tis hard to see thee going to destruction, Ralph. Will nought move thee ? " "Nought, my friend," was Wentworth's quiet answer. " That which is my duty I must do — and thou too. Roger, are we friends ? Never, methinks, in two hundred years, hath the friendship between Sparowe and Wentworth been strained * At the battle of Hexham John Sparowe and his friend Wentworth fought side by side. As they both lay a-dying, a double motto was bestowed on them, to commemorate their valour and friendship. The motto given to John Sparowe, which has been borne by the family from that time, was " Nescia sola mori : " " Unable to die alone."

To which the dying Wentworth is said to have answered : " Je me contente." so nearly to the breaking point as to-day. Hath it stood the test ? " " 'Twas no test with me, Ralph. Thou art the same to me as ever. I sought but to save thee, and since the Lord willeth not thy salvation through me, unto Him I commit thee." The two men wrung each other's hands, and for a moment there was silence so profound, that they could hear the water lapping softly against the buttresses below. Then, speaking with assumed carelessness, Wentworth asked : " And how fares my friend Walter ? Doth he remain with thee, or comes he to the war, to win his knightly spurs." "Walter abides at home," answered Roger, gravely. " While I am master in our house, he must submit himself to me. And since he will not fight on the Lord's side, I will not suffer him to join the battle.

He is young and weak, and hath readily yielded to my desires." Wentworth shot a keen sharp look at his friend, and a smile, instantly repressed, curled his lips, but he made no comment. "Farewell, Roger," he said after another pause. " For thy sake I desire it may be as thou wouldest have it, — for mine own, scarcely. I dare not tarry longer. There are others who wait for me. When shall we meet again, my friend ? " " I know not," answered Roger sadly. " None can say what may betide on the morrow. These be troublous times, Ralph. But our bond of friendship standeth sure?" AVentworth nodded and Roger went on : " Forget not, if thou art in want or trouble, that thou hast a friend. I hold it sinful to swear, but I give thee mine hand here before the Lord, that I will not fail thee in any stress.

If the battle go against you, — as it must do, 3-e have not a third of our men, — all I have is thine. Make thy way to me, and I will hide thee." "A man may lose his head for saying as much," said Wentworth, significantly. " I thank thee, Roger. There spoke thy noblest self. But be at ease ; I shall not put thee to the proof. AVe shall not lose. The goodness of our cause will give each man the strength of ten. Nay, forsooth," he continued with a sad smile ; " it may the rather be that thou wilt need protection of me, and thou shalt have it, fear not." Then the two men laid their hands on each other's shoulders, and kissed each other solemnly, after the more demonstrative fashion of those times. "Farewell, Ralph," said Roger, mournfully. "Alas, that it should be farewell ! that we fight not side by side !

Surely 'tis a judgment of the Lord upon me that all I love — mother, brother, friend, — should be against me." " Nay, not all of us," said AA'entworth, with a smile. " Be not so sad-hearted. Methinks I have heard talk of a fair Puritan damsel, who seeth these things as thou dost, down there iu Suffolk. Come, man, pluck up thy spirit. How stands it with thee ? Hath report spoken true ? " "These be no times to think of love," returned Roger, but his averted face was crimson. " 'Tis war and bitter strife with which we are concerned, not the courting of fair ladies. Once more, farewell, and the Lord grant thee to see the error of thy way." And, great as was AVentworth's need to be gone, Roger left him so abruptly, that the Puritan's slight figure had already vanished into the dark tunnel between the houses, before the Royalist turned, and made for the Bridge end, where his horse awaited him.