A STRANGE RIDE
Rat-a-tat-tat at the first dim hint of dawn went the chamberlain’s
knuckles upon the door. To Nick it seemed scarce midnight yet, so sound
had been his sleep.
Master Carew having gotten into his high-topped riding-boots with a
great puffing and tugging, they washed their faces at the inn-yard pump
by the smoky light of the hostler’s lantern, and then in a subdued,
half-wakened way made a hearty breakfast off the fragments of the last
night’s feast. Part of the remaining cold meat, cheese, and cakes Carew
stowed in his leather pouch. The rest he left in the lap of a beggar
sleeping beside the door.
The street was dim with a chilly fog, through which a few pale stars
still struggled overhead. The houses were all shut and barred; nobody
was abroad, and the night-watch slept in comfortable doorways here and
there, with lolling heads and lanterns long gone out. As they came along
the crooked street, a stray cat scurried away with scared green eyes,
and a kenneled hound set up a lonesome howl.
But the Blue Boar Inn was stirring like an ant-hill, with firefly
lanterns flitting up and down, and a cheery glow about the open door.
The horses of the company, scrubbed unreasonably clean, snorted and
stamped in little bridled clumps about the courtyard, and the
stable-boys, not scrubbed at all, clanked at the pump or shook out
wrinkled saddle-cloths with most prodigious yawns. The grooms were
buckling up the packs; the chamberlain and sleepy-lidded maids stood at
the door, waiting their fare-well farthings.
Some of the company yawned in the tap-room; some yawned out of doors
with steaming stirrup-cup in hand; and some came yawning down the
stairways pulling on their riding-cloaks, booted, spurred, and ready for
a long day’s ride.
“Good-morrow, sirs,” said Carew, heartily. “Good-morrow, sir, to you,”
said they, and all came over to speak to Nicholas in a very kindly way;
and one or two patted him on the cheek and walked away speaking in
under-tones among themselves, keeping one eye on Carew all the while.
And Master Tom Heywood, the play-writer, came out with a great slice of
fresh wheat-bread, thick with butter and dripping with yellow honey, and
gave it to Nick; and stood there silently with a very queer expression
watching him eat it, until Carew’s groom led up a stout hackney and a
small roan palfrey to the block, and the master-player, crying
impatiently, “Up with thee, Nick; we must be ambling!” sprang into the
saddle of the gray.
The sleepy inn-folk roused a bit to send a cheery volley of, “Fare ye
well, sirs; come again,” after the departing players, and the long
cavalcade cantered briskly out of the inn-yard, in double rank, with a
great clinking of bridle-chains and a drifting odor of wet leather and
heavy perfume.
Nick sat very erect and rode his best, feeling like some errant knight
of the great Round Table, ready to right the whole world’s wrongs. “But
what about the horse?” said he. “We can na keep him in Stratford, sir.”
“Oh, that’s all seen to,” said the master-player. “’Tis to be sent back
by the weekly carrier.”
“And where do I turn into the Stratford road, sir?” asked Nick, as the
players clattered down the cobbled street in a cloud of mist that
steamed up so thickly from the stones that the horses seemed to have no
legs, but to float like boats.
“Some distance further on,” replied Carew, carelessly. “’Tis not the
way we came that thou shalt ride to-day; that is t’ other end of town,
and the gate not open yet. But the longest way round is the shortest way
home, so let’s be spurring on.”
At the corner of the street a cross and sleepy cobbler was strapping a
dirty urchin, who bellowed lustily. Nick winced.
“Hollo!” cried Carew. “What’s to do?”
“Why, sir,” said Nick, ruefully, “father will thresh me well this
night.”
“Nay,” said Carew, in a quite decided tone; “that he’ll not, I promise
thee!”—and as he spoke he chuckled softly to himself.
The man before them turned suddenly around and grinned queerly; but,
catching the master-player’s eye, whipped his head about like a
weather-vane in a gale, and cantered on.
As they came down the narrow street the watchmen were just swinging wide
the city gates, and gave a cheer to speed the parting guests, who gave a
rouse in turn, and were soon lost to sight in the mist which hid the
valley in a great gray sea.
“How shall I know where to turn off, sir?” asked Nick, a little
anxiously. “’Tis all alike.”
“I’ll tell thee,” said the master-player; “rest thee easy on that score.
I know the road thou art to ride much better than thou dost thyself.”
He smiled quite frankly as he spoke, and Nick could not help wondering
why the man before them again turned around and eyed him with that
sneaking grin.
He did not like the fellow’s looks. He had scowling black brows, hair
cut as close as if the rats had gnawed it off, a pair of ill-shaped
bandy-legs, a wide, unwholesome slit of a mouth, and a nose like a
raspberry tart. His whole appearance was servile and mean, and there was
a sly malice in his furtive eyes. Besides that, and a thing which
strangely fascinated Nick’s gaze, there was a hole through the gristle
of his right ear, scarred about as if it had been burned, and through
this hole the fellow had tied a bow of crimson ribbon, like a butterfly
alighted upon his ear.
“A pretty fellow!” said Carew, with a shrug. “He’ll be hard put to dodge
the hangman yet; but he’s a right good fellow in his way, and he has
served me—he has served me.”
The first loud burst of talk had ceased, and all rode silently along.
The air was chill, and Nick was grateful for the cloak that Carew threw
around him. There was no sound but the beat of many hoofs in the
dust-padded road, and now and then the crowing of a cock somewhere
within the cloaking fog. The stars were gone, and the sky was lighting
up; and all at once, as they rode, the clouds ahead, low down and to the
right, broke raggedly away and let a red sun-gleam shoot through across
the mist, bathing the riders in dazzling rosy light.
“Why, Master Carew,” cried Nick, no little startled, “there comes the
sun, almost ahead! We’re riding east-ward, sir. We’ve missed the road!”
“Oh, no, we’ve not,” said Carew; “nothing of the sort.” His tone was so
peremptory and sharp that Nick said nothing more, but rode along,
vaguely wishing that he was already clattering down Stratford
High street.
The clouds scattered as the sun came up, and the morning haze drifted
away into cool dales, and floated off upon the breeze. And as the world
woke up the players wakened too, and rode gaily along, laughing,
singing, and chattering together, until Nick thought he had never in all
his life before seen such a jolly fellowship. His heart was blithe as he
reined his curveting palfrey by the master-player’s side, and watched
the sunlight dance and sparkle along the dashing line from dagger-hilts
and jeweled clasps, and the mist-lank plumes curl crisp again in the
warmth of the rising sun.
The master-player, too, had a graceful, taking way of being half
familiar with the lad; he was besides a marvelous teller of wonderful
tales, and whiled away the time with jests and quips, mile after mile,
till Nick forgot both road and time, and laughed until his sides
were sore.
Yet slowly, as they rode along, it came home to him with the passing of
the land that this was country new and strange. So he began to take
notice of this and that beside the way; and as he noticed he began to
grow uneasy. Thrice had he come to Coventry, but surely never by a road
like this.
Yet still the master-player joked and laughed and pleased the boy with
little things—until Nick laughed too, and let the matter go. At last,
however, when they had ridden fully an hour, they passed a moss-grown
abbey on the left-hand side of the road, a strange old place that Nick
could not recall.
“Are ye sure, Master Carew,” he ventured timidly—
At that the master-player took on so offended an air that Nick was sorry
he had spoken.
“Why, now,” said Carew, haughtily, “if thou dost know the roads of
England better than I, who have trudged and ridden them all these years,
I’ll sit me down and learn of thee how to follow mine own nose. I tell
thee I know the road thou art to ride this day better than thou dost
thyself; and I’ll see to it that thou dost come without fail to the very
place that thou art going. I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of
mine honour!”
But in spite of this assurance, and in spite of the master-player’s
ceaseless stream of gaiety and marvels, Nick became more and more
uneasy. The road was certainly growing stranger and stranger as they
passed. The company, too, instead of ambling leisurely along, as they
had done at first, were now spurring ahead at a good round gallop, in
answer to a shrill whistle from the master-player; and the horses were
wet with sweat.
They passed a country village, too, that was quite unknown to Nick, and
a great highway running to the north that he had never seen before; and
when they had ridden for about two hours, the road swerved southward to
a shining ford, and on a little tableland beyond he saw the gables of a
town he did not know.
“Why, Master Carew!” he cried out, half indignant, half perplexed, and
thoroughly frightened, “this is na the Stratford road at all. I’m going
back. I will na ride another mile!”
As he spoke he wheeled the roan sharply out of the clattering file with
a slash of the rein across the withers, and started back along the hill
past the rest of the company, who came thumping down behind.
“Stop him! Stop him there!” he heard the master-player shout, and there
was something in the fierce, high voice that turned his whole heart
sick. What right had they to stop him? This was not the Stratford road;
he was certain of that now. But “Stop him—stop him there!” he heard the
master-player call, and a wild, unreasoning fright came over him. He dug
his heels into the palfrey’s heaving sides and urged him up the hill
through the cloud of dust that came rolling down behind the horsemen.
The hindmost riders had plunged into those before, and the whole array
was struggling, shouting, and wrangling in wild disorder; but out of the
flurry Carew and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear spurred
furiously and came galloping after him at the top of their speed.
Nick cried out, and beat the palfrey with the rein; but the chase was
short. They overtook him as he topped the hill, one on each side, and,
leaning over, Carew snatched the bridle from his hand. “Thou little
imp!” he panted, as he turned the roan around and started down the hill.
“Don’t try this on again!”
“Oh, Master Carew,” gasped Nick, “what are ye going to do wi’ me?”
“Do with thee?” cried the master-player, savagely clapping his hand upon
his poniard,—“why, I am going to do with thee just whatever I please.
Dost hear? And, hark ’e, this sort of caper doth not please me at all;
and by the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, if thou triest it on again,
thy life is not worth a rotten peascod!”
Unbuckling the rein, he tossed one end to the bandy-legged man, and
holding the other in his own hand, with Nick riding helplessly between
them, they trotted down the hill again, took their old places in the
ranks, and spattered through the shallow ford.
The bandy-legged man had pulled a dagger from beneath his coat, and held
it under his bridle-rein, shining through the horse’s mane as they
dashed through the still half-sleeping town. Nick was speechless
with terror.
Beyond the town’s end they turned sharply to the northeast, galloping
steadily onward for what was perhaps half an hour, though to Nick it
seemed a forever, until they came out into a great highway running
southward. “Watling street!” he heard the man behind him say, and knew
that they were in the old Roman road that stretched from London to the
north. Still they were galloping, though long strings dribbled from the
horses’ mouths, and the saddle-leathers dripped with foam. One or two
looked back at him and bit their lips; but Carew’s eyes were hot and
fierce, and his hand was on his poniard. The rest, after a curious
glance or two, shrugged their shoulders carelessly and galloped on: this
affair was Master Gaston Carew’s business, not theirs.
Until high noon they hurried on with neither stop nor stay. Then they
came to a place where a little brook sang through the grass by the
roadside in a shady nook beneath some mighty oaks, and there the
master-player whistled for a halt, to give the horses breath and rest,
and to water them at the brook-pools. Some of the players sauntered up
and down to stretch their tired legs, munching meat and bread; and some
lay down upon the grass and slept a little. Two of them came, offering
Nick some cakes and cheese; but he was crying hard and would neither
eat nor drink, though Carew urged him earnestly. Then Master Tom
Heywood, with an ugly look at Carew, and without so much as an
if-ye-please or a by-your-leave, led Nick up the brook to a spot where
it had not been muddied by the horses, and made him wash his dusty face
and hands in the cool water and dampen his hair, though he complied as
if in a daze. And indeed Nick rode on through the long afternoon,
clinging helplessly to the pommel of his saddle, sobbing bitterly until
for very weariness he could no longer sob.
It was after nine o’clock that night when they rode into Towcester, and
all that was to be seen was a butcher’s boy carting garbage out of the
town and whistling to keep his courage up. The watch had long since gone
to sleep about the silent streets, but a dim light burned in the
tap-room of the Old Brown Cow; and there the players rested for
the night.