Chapter Chapter 10 · Chapter 10

. Chapter 10

Perhaps there is nothing more delightful in the romance of boyhood than

the finding of some secret hiding-place whither a body may creep away

from the bustle of the world's life, to nestle in quietness for an hour

or two. More especially is such delightful if it happen that, by

peeping from out it, one may look down upon the bustling matters of

busy every-day life, while one lies snugly hidden away unseen by any, as

though one were in some strange invisible world of one's own.

Such a hiding-place as would have filled the heart of almost any boy

with sweet delight Myles and Gascoyne found one summer afternoon. They

called it their Eyry, and the name suited well for the roosting-place

of the young hawks that rested in its windy stillness, looking down upon

the shifting castle life in the courts below.

Behind the north stable, a great, long, rambling building, thick-walled,

and black with age, lay an older part of the castle than that peopled

by the better class of life--a cluster of great thick walls, rudely but

strongly built, now the dwelling-place of stable-lads and hinds, swine

and poultry. From one part of these ancient walls, and fronting an inner

court of the castle, arose a tall, circular, heavy-buttressed tower,

considerably higher than the other buildings, and so mantled with a

dense growth of aged ivy as to stand a shaft of solid green. Above its

crumbling crown circled hundreds of pigeons, white and pied, clapping

and clattering in noisy flight through the sunny air. Several windows,

some closed with shutters, peeped here and there from out the leaves,

and near the top of the pile was a row of arched openings, as though of

a balcony or an airy gallery.

Myles had more than once felt an idle curiosity about this tower, and

one day, as he and Gascoyne sat together, he pointed his finger and

said, “What is yon place?”

“That,” answered Gascoyne, looking over his shoulder--“that they call

Brutus Tower, for why they do say that Brutus he built it when he came

hither to Britain. I believe not the tale mine own self; ne'theless, it

is marvellous ancient, and old Robin-the-Fletcher telleth me that there

be stairways built in the wall and passage-ways, and a maze wherein

a body may get lost, an he know not the way aright, and never see the

blessed light of day again.”

“Marry,” said Myles, “those same be strange sayings. Who liveth there

now?”

“No one liveth there,” said Gascoyne, “saving only some of the stable

villains, and that half-witted goose-herd who flung stones at us

yesterday when we mocked him down in the paddock. He and his wife and

those others dwell in the vaults beneath, like rabbits in any warren. No

one else hath lived there since Earl Robert's day, which belike was

an hundred years agone. The story goeth that Earl Robert's brother--or

step-brother--was murdered there, and some men say by the Earl himself.

Sin that day it hath been tight shut.”

Myles stared at the tower for a while in silence. “It is a

strange-seeming place from without,” said he, at last, “and mayhap it

may be even more strange inside. Hast ever been within, Francis?”

“Nay,” said Gascoyne; “said I not it hath been fast locked since Earl

Robert's day?”

“By'r Lady,” said Myles, “an I had lived here in this place so long as

thou, I wot I would have been within it ere this.”

“Beshrew me,” said Gascoyne, “but I have never thought of such a

matter.” He turned and looked at the tall crown rising into the warm

sunlight with a new interest, for the thought of entering it smacked

pleasantly of adventure. “How wouldst thou set about getting within?”

said he, presently.

“Why, look,” said Myles; “seest thou not yon hole in the ivy branches?

Methinks there is a window at that place. An I mistake not, it is in

reach of the stable eaves. A body might come up by the fagot pile to the

roof of the hen-house, and then by the long stable to the north stable,

and so to that hole.”

Gascoyne looked thoughtfully at the Brutus Tower, and then suddenly

inquired, “Wouldst go there?”

“Aye,” said Myles, briefly.

“So be it. Lead thou the way in the venture, I will follow after thee,”

said Gascoyne.

As Myles had said, the climbing from roof to roof was a matter easy

enough to an active pair of lads like themselves; but when, by-and-by,

they reached the wall of the tower itself, they found the hidden window

much higher from the roof than they had judged from below--perhaps ten

or twelve feet--and it was, besides, beyond the eaves and out of their

reach.

Myles looked up and looked down. Above was the bushy thickness of the

ivy, the branches as thick as a woman's wrist, knotted and intertwined;

below was the stone pavement of a narrow inner court between two of the

stable buildings.

“Methinks I can climb to yon place,” said he.

“Thou'lt break thy neck an thou tryest,” said Gascoyne, hastily.

“Nay,” quoth Myles, “I trust not; but break or make, we get not there

without trying. So here goeth for the venture.”

“Thou art a hare-brained knave as ever drew breath of life,” quoth

Gascoyne, “and will cause me to come to grief some of these fine days.

Ne'theless, an thou be Jack Fool and lead the way, go, and I will be Tom

Fool and follow anon. If thy neck is worth so little, mine is worth no

more.”

It was indeed a perilous climb, but that special providence which guards

reckless lads befriended them, as it has thousands of their kind before

and since. So, by climbing from one knotted, clinging stem to another,

they were presently seated snugly in the ivied niche in the window. It

was barred from within by a crumbling shutter, the rusty fastening of

which, after some little effort upon the part of the two, gave way, and

entering the narrow opening, they found themselves in a small triangular

passage-way, from which a steep flight of stone steps led down through a

hollow in the massive wall to the room below.

At the bottom of the steps was a heavy oaken door, which stood ajar,

hanging upon a single rusty hinge, and from the room within a dull, gray

light glimmered faintly. Myles pushed the door farther open; it creaked

and grated horribly on its rusty hinge, and, as in instant answer to

the discordant shriek, came a faint piping squeaking, a rustling and a

pattering of soft footsteps.

“The ghosts!” cried Gascoyne, in a quavering whisper, and for a moment

Myles felt the chill of goose-flesh creep up and down his spine. But the

next moment he laughed.

“Nay,” said he, “they be rats. Look at yon fellow, Francis! Be'st as big

as Mother Joan's kitten. Give me that stone.” He flung it at the rat,

and it flew clattering across the floor. There was another pattering

rustle of hundreds of feet, and then a breathless silence.

The boys stood looking around them, and a strange enough sight it was.

The room was a perfect circle of about twenty feet across, and was

piled high with an indistinguishable mass of lumber--rude tables, ruder

chairs, ancient chests, bits and remnants of cloth and sacking and

leather, old helmets and pieces of armor of a by-gone time, broken

spears and pole-axes, pots and pans and kitchen furniture of all sorts

and kinds.

A straight beam of sunlight fell through a broken shutter like a bar of

gold, and fell upon the floor in a long streak of dazzling light that

illuminated the whole room with a yellow glow.

“By 'r Lady!” said Gascoyne at last, in a hushed voice, “here is Father

Time's garret for sure. Didst ever see the like, Myles? Look at yon

arbalist; sure Brutus himself used such an one!”

“Nay,” said Myles; “but look at this saddle. Marry, here be'st a rat's

nest in it.”

Clouds of dust rose as they rummaged among the mouldering mass, setting

them coughing and sneezing. Now and then a great gray rat would shoot

out beneath their very feet, and disappear, like a sudden shadow, into

some hole or cranny in the wall.

“Come,” said Myles at last, brushing the dust from his jacket, “an we

tarry here longer we will have chance to see no other sights; the sun is

falling low.”

An arched stair-way upon the opposite side of the room from which they

had entered wound upward through the wall, the stone steps being lighted

by narrow slits of windows cut through the massive masonry. Above the

room they had just left was another of the same shape and size, but with

an oak floor, sagging and rising into hollows and hills, where the joist

had rotted away beneath. It was bare and empty, and not even a rat

was to be seen. Above was another room; above that, another; all the

passages and stairways which connected the one story with the other

being built in the wall, which was, where solid, perhaps fifteen feet

thick.

From the third floor a straight flight of steps led upward to a closed

door, from the other side of which shone the dazzling brightness of

sunlight, and whence came a strange noise--a soft rustling, a melodious

murmur. The boys put their shoulders against the door, which was

fastened, and pushed with might and main--once, twice; suddenly the

lock gave way, and out they pitched headlong into a blaze of sunlight.

A deafening clapping and uproar sounded in their ears, and scores of

pigeons, suddenly disturbed, rose in stormy flight.

They sat up and looked around them in silent wonder. They were in a

bower of leafy green. It was the top story of the tower, the roof of

which had crumbled and toppled in, leaving it open to the sky, with only

here and there a slanting beam or two supporting a portion of the tiled

roof, affording shelter for the nests of the pigeons crowded closely

together. Over everything the ivy had grown in a mantling sheet--a

net-work of shimmering green, through which the sunlight fell

flickering.

“This passeth wonder,” said Gascoyne, at last breaking the silence.

“Aye,” said Myles, “I did never see the like in all my life.” Then,

“Look, yonder is a room beyond; let us see what it is, Francis.”

Entering an arched door-way, the two found themselves in a beautiful

little vaulted chapel, about eighteen feet long and twelve or fifteen

wide. It comprised the crown of one of the large massive buttresses, and

from it opened the row of arched windows which could be seen from below

through the green shimmering of the ivy leaves. The boys pushed aside

the trailing tendrils and looked out and down. The whole castle lay

spread below them, with the busy people unconsciously intent upon the

matters of their daily work. They could see the gardener, with bowed

back, patiently working among the flowers in the garden, the stable-boys

below grooming the horses, a bevy of ladies in the privy garden playing

at shuttlecock with battledoors of wood, a group of gentlemen walking

up and down in front of the Earl's house. They could see the household

servants hurrying hither and thither, two little scullions at

fisticuffs, and a kitchen girl standing in the door-way scratching her

frowzy head.

It was all like a puppetshow of real life, each acting unconsciously a

part in the play. The cool wind came in through the rustling leaves and

fanned their cheeks, hot with the climb up the winding stair-way.

“We will call it our Eyry,” said Gascoyne “and we will be the hawks that

live here.” And that was how it got its name.

The next day Myles had the armorer make him a score of large spikes,

which he and Gascoyne drove between the ivy branches and into the cement

of the wall, and so made a safe passageway by which to reach the window

niche in the wall.