XIII
What Master Nathaniel and Master Ambrose Found in the Guildhall
Master Nathaniel was much too restless and anxious to explore the Guildhall until the groom returned whom he had sent with the letter to Luke Hempen.
But he must have taken the order to ride night and day literally—in so short a time was he back again in Lud. Master Nathaniel was, of course, enchanted by his despatch, though he was unable to elicit from him any detailed answers to his eager questions about Ranulph. But it was everything to know that the boy was well and happy, and it was but natural that the fellow should be bashful and tongue-tied in the presence of his master.
But the groom had not, as a matter of fact, come within twenty miles of the widow Gibberty’s farm.
In a roadside tavern he had fallen in with a red-haired youth, who had treated him to glass upon glass of an extremely intoxicating wine; and, in consequence, he had spent the night and a considerable portion of the following morning sound asleep on the floor of the tavern.
When he awoke, he was horrified to discover how much time he had wasted. But his mind was set at rest on the innkeeper’s giving him a letter from the red-haired youth, to say that he deeply regretted having been the indirect cause of delaying a messenger sent on pressing business by the High Seneschal (in his cup the groom had boasted of the importance of his errand), and had, in consequence, ventured to possess himself of the letter, which he guaranteed to deliver at the address on the wrapper as soon, or sooner, as the messenger could have done himself.
The groom was greatly relieved. He had not been long in Master Nathaniel’s service. It was after Yuletide he had entered it.
So it was with a heart relieved from all fears for Ranulph and free to throb like a schoolboy’s with the lust of adventure that Master Nathaniel met Master Ambrose on the night of the full moon at the splendid carved doors of the Guildhall.
“I say, Ambrose,” he whispered, “I feel as if we were lads again, and off to rob an orchard!”
Master Ambrose snorted. He was determined, at all costs, to do his duty, but it annoyed him that his duty should be regarded in the light of a boyish escapade.
The great doors creaked back on their hinges. Shutting them as quietly as they could, they tiptoed up the spiral staircase and along the corridor described by Dame Marigold: whenever a board creaked under their heavy steps, one inwardly cursing the other for daring to be so stout and unwieldy.
All round them was darkness, except for the little trickles of light cast before them by their two lanterns.
A house with old furniture has no need of guests to be haunted. As we have seen, Master Nathaniel was very sensitive to the silent things—stars, houses, trees; and often in his pipe-room, after the candles had been lit, he would sit staring at the bookshelves, the chairs, his father’s portrait—even at his red umbrella standing up in the corner, with as great a sense of awe as if he had been a stargazer.
But that night, the brooding invisible presences of the carved panels, the storied tapestries, affected even the hardheaded Master Ambrose. It was as if that silent population was drawing him, by an irresistible magnetism, into the zone of its influence.
If only they would speak, or begin to move about—those silent rooted things! It was like walking through a wood by moonlight.
Then Master Nathaniel stood still.
“This, I think, must roughly be the spot where Marigold found the hollow panel,” he whispered, and began tapping cautiously along the wainscotting.
A few minutes later, he said in an excited whisper, “Ambrose! Ambrose! I’ve got it. Hark! You can hear, can’t you? It’s as hollow as a drum.”
“Suffering Cats! I believe you’re right,” whispered back Master Ambrose, beginning, in spite of himself, to be a little infected with Nat’s absurd excitement.
And then, yielding to pressure, the panel slid back, and by the light of their lanterns they could see a twisting staircase.
For a few seconds they gazed at each other in silent triumph. Then Master Nathaniel chuckled, and said, “Well, here goes—down with our buckets into the well! And may we draw up something better than an old shoe or a rotten walnut!” and straightway he began to descend the stairs, Master Ambrose valiantly following him.
The stairs went twisting down, down—into the very bowels of the earth, it seemed. But at long last they found themselves in what looked like a long tunnel.
“Tally ho! Tally ho!” whispered Master Nathaniel, laughing for sheer joy of adventure, “take it at a gallop, Brosie; it may lead to an open glade … and the deer at bay!”
And digging him in the ribs, he added, “Better sport than moth hunting, eh?” which showed the completeness of their reconciliation.
Nevertheless, it was very slowly, and feeling each step, that they groped their way along the tunnel.
After what seemed a very long time Master Nathaniel halted, and whispered over his shoulder, “Here we are. There’s a door … oh, thunder and confusion on it forever! It’s locked.”
And, beside himself with irritation at this unlooked-for obstacle, he began to batter and kick at the door, like one demented.
He paused a minute for breath, and from the inside could be heard a shrill female voice demanding the password.
“Password?” bellowed back Master Nathaniel, “by the Sun, Moon and Stars and the Golden Apples of the West, what …”
But before he could finish his sentence, the door was opened from the other side, and they marched into a low, square room, which was lit by one lamp swinging by a chain from the ceiling—for which there seemed but little need, for a light more brilliant than that of any lamp, and yet as soft as moonlight, seemed
