Instead of viewing the rural scenery, the two colonels had come there to
make a reconnaissance. The town itself, its fortified _enceinte_, the
gates piercing it, and the roads around, were the objects to which their
glances were given. And, for a time, all their attention was engrossed
by them, neither speaking a word.
At length Massey, having made survey of them through the telescope,
handed it to the knight, saying,--
"So you think there's a chance of our taking the place?"
Sir Richard but ran the glass around hastily. He had been up there
before, and more carefully reconnoitred, their chief object being to
ascertain the strength of the garrison.
"Yes, your Excellency," he rejoined, "a chance, and something more, if
Kyrle prove true; or rather should I say, traitor. And," he added, with
a significant smile, "I think we can trust him to do that."
"As it wouldn't be the first time for him, no doubt we can. He has
twice turned coat already. And's no doubt itching to give it another
shift, if he can but see the way without getting it torn from his back.
Marston Moor has had its effect on him, too, I suppose."
"It has, and our affair at Beachley will strengthen it. He'll want to
be back on what he believes the winning side now more than ever. His
communication to me, though carefully worded, means that, if anything.
But we'll be better able to judge when our despatch-bearers report
themselves at High Meadow House. I think we may look for a letter from
him."
It was at High Meadow House their men were encamped; the main body under
Massey having just arrived, while Sir Richard, with his troopers in
advance, had been there overnight. And that same morning the cadgers,
hastily summoned from their home at Ruardean, had been despatched to
Monmouth market: Jack, or rather the sister, with secret instructions,
and Jinkum with full panniers.
"They ought to be back soon now," added Sir Richard, again raising the
glass to his eye, and turning it on the town, his object to see if the
market people had all gone away.
When he last looked, they were streaming out through the gates, the
commercial business of the market being over long ago. And now there
were only some stragglers on the outgoing roads, men who had lingered by
the ale-houses in gossip, or standing treat to the ever-thirsty
soldiery.
Just then there came within his field of view a group composed of
elements altogether different from the home-returning rustics.
"What do you see?" asked Massey, observing the telescope steadied, and
the knight looking through it with fixed, earnest gaze.
"A party of horse, carrying the lance--most of them."
"Where?"
"Just coming out of the northern gate."
"A patrol, perhaps?"
"No; something more. There are too many of them for that. Over a
hundred have passed out already. And--yes; prisoners with them?"
"Let me have a look," said the Governor, stretching out his hand for the
telescope, which, of course, the other surrendered to him. Reluctantly
though, as Sir Richard felt more than a common interest in the prisoners
so escorted.
"You're right," said Massey, soon as sighting them. "Prisoners they
have. But whither can they be taking them? That's the road to Ross."
"To Hereford also, your Excellency. The route; are the same as far as
Whitchurch."
"Ah, true. Still it's odd their starting out at such an hour! And why
carrying prisoners away to Hereford? Surely Monmouth Castle affords
gaol room enough. I hope it's not so full. If so, all the more reason
for our doing what we can to empty it."
"I don't think they're for Hereford, either. If I'm not mistaken, I saw
something which tells of a different destination. If your Excellency
will allow me another look through the telescope, perhaps--"
"Oh, by all means, take it!" said the Governor, interrupting, and again
handing over the glass.
"Yes! just as I supposed they were--Harry Lingen's Horse!" exclaimed Sir
Richard, after viewing them for a second or two. "And those poor
fellows, their prisoners, likely enough are my own men--one of them,
though I can't identify him, my unfortunate troop captain, young Trevor.
They're _en route_ neither for Ross nor Hereford, but Goodrich Castle,
where Lingen has his headquarters. It's but a short six miles, which
may account for their setting out so late."
"But Trevor's party was taken at a place near Ruardean--Hollymead House,
if I recollect aright."
"True; the house of Master Ambrose Powell. It was there Lingen
surprised them, through a scoundrel who turned traitor."
"Then why were they brought to Monmouth at all? Ruardean's but a step
from Goodrich."
"Just so, your Excellency, I was puzzled about that myself up till this
morning. Now I know why, having got the information from our cadger
friends. It appears that when Lingen made his swoop on Hollymead he was
on the way to join Wintour at Beachley, so kept straight on through
Monmouth, where he dropped his _impedimenta_ of prisoners. On return
he's now picked them up again, and's taking them on to his own
stronghold."
"That's it, no doubt," assented Massey. "But," he added, with a smile
of triumphant satisfaction, "whoever those captives be, pretty sure none
of them have been brought up from Beachley. Nor is their escort as
large as it might have been had Lingen left Wintour to himself. We gave
their ranks a good weeding there--all round."
"Yes, indeed," rejoined the knight, rather absently, and with the
telescope still at his eye. He was endeavouring to make good the
identity of the captive party, and assure himself whether it was really
what he had conjectured it to be.
But he could have little doubt, as he had none about the soldiers
forming their escort--Lingen's Horse to a certainty--a partisan troop,
variously armed, but most carrying the lance. And while he still
continued gazing at them, they commenced the ascent of the Ley's
_pitch_, which passes over the col between Little Doward and the Table
Mount, the road running through woods all the way. Under these they
were soon lost to his sight, and as the last lance with its pennon
disappeared below the tops of the trees, he lowered his telescope with a
sigh, saying,--
"What a pity the river's between, with a flood on! But for that we
might have crossed at Huntsholme, and caught up with them ere they
could--"
He broke off abruptly at sound of footsteps: the tread of heavy boots,
with the chink of spurs, and the louder clank of a steel scabbard
striking against them.
He making all these formidable noises was Sergeant Rob Wilde, seen
ascending the steep pitch, and evidently on some errand that called for
haste.
Sir Richard, advancing to meet him, saw that he had something in his
hand, with a good guess as to what it was.
"Jerky Jack ha' brought this, colonel," said the sergeant, saluting, as
he held out a slip of paper, folded and sealed. "He ha' just got up fra
Monnerth; an', accordin' to your command, I took it out o' his leg."
"You did quite right, sergeant. Was there nothing more in the leg?"
"Only some silver, colonel; the difference o' the money he got for the
fowls an' what he gied for the grocer goods. He stowed it theer, afeerd
o' the King's sodgers strippin' him o't."
"A wise precaution on Jerky's part," observed the knight, with a smile.
"And called for, no doubt."