her husband's step, glanced up, and ran to meet him.
"My lord--my dear, dear lord, have you come back?"
"Ay, like a bridegroom, wife."
They forgot the onlookers, forgot turmoil and great hardship. There
comes seldom to any man and wife so fine a forgetting. It was well, Kit
thought, to carry three wounds to his knowledge--and some lesser ones
that did not count--to have seen these two with the red halo of the
sundown round them.
"The Prince sends me with the twenty-seven standards, wife, that
beleaguered you."
"Oh, my thanks; but, my lord, he sends me you. What care have I for
standards?"
*CHAPTER XV.*
*TWO JOLLY PURITANS.*
Three days later Rupert came in, after seeing to the needs of Bolton.
He came for rest, before pushing on to York, he asserted; but his way of
recreation, here as elsewhere, was to set about the reconstruction of
battered walls. Christopher Metcalf, raw not long ago from Yoredale,
wondered, as he supped with them that night, why he was privileged to
sit at meat with these gentles who had gone through fire and sword,
whose attire was muddied and bloodstained, for the most part, but who
kept the fire of loyalty like a grace that went before and after the
meat they ate hungrily. He was puzzled that Lord Derby toasted him,
with the smile his own father might have given him--was bewildered when
the men rose to the toast with a joyous roar.
"The young Mecca for the King--the White Knight for the King!"
All he had dreamed in Yoredale was in the doing here. Kit was
unsteadied by it, as if wine were mounting to his head.
"My thanks, gentlemen," he said. "Be pleased to nickname me. For my
part, I feel like the ass Michael rode to York--patient and
long-suffering, but no knight at all."
"How did Michael ride to York?" asked Derby, with a gust of laughter.
So then Kit told the tale, losing his diffidence and pointing the
narrative with dry, upland humour.
"Good, Mr. Metcalf," said Lady Derby. "I have not laughed since my lord
rode out, until to-day. Where is this Michael who rode to York?"
"With the rest of the good Metcalfs," said Rupert. "I left the whole
fine brood to guard Lathom from without. They go north with me in two
days' time. You shall see them--six-score on their white horses." A
shadow crossed his face; the so-called failing of the Stuart temperament
was his, and he counted each man lost as a brother to be mourned for.
"Why the cloud on your face, Prince?" asked Lady Derby.
"There are only five-score now. When we counted our dead at Bolton,
there were some gallant Metcalfs lying face upward to their God."
A sickness came to Christopher. He turned aside, and longed for the
mother who had sheltered his young days. Bloodshed and wounds he had
foreseen; but to his boy's view of life, it seemed incredible that any
of the jolly Yoredale clan should die--should go out for ever, beyond
reach of hand-grip.
"Was my father with the slain--or Michael?" he asked by and by.
"Neither, lad." Rupert came and touched him on the arm. "Oh, I know, I
know! The pity of one's dead--and yet their glory--it is all a muddle,
this affair of war."
It was on the second morning afterwards, while Rupert was getting his
army in readiness for the march on York, that Lady Derby saw Christopher
standing apart, the new sadness in his face.
"You are thinking of your dead?" she said, in her brisk, imperative way.
"Laddie, do you not guess that the dead are thinking, too, of you?"
"They rest where they lie," he said, stubborn in his grief.
"Oh, go to kirk more often, and learn that they know more than we do.
These twenty Yoredale men, they are not dead--they watch you from the
Heights."
"My lady," said Christopher, with a smile made up of weariness, "I am a
plain man of my hands, like all my folk. I have no gift for dreams."
"Nor I," she agreed. "When wounds conquer all your pride of
strength--when you are laid by, and weak as a little child--ask yourself
if I spoke dreams or living truth."
He glanced once at her. There was an odd look about her, a light in her
eyes that he could not understand.
He forgot it all when he joined his folk to ride behind Rupert for the
relief of York. The high adventure was in front, like a good fox, and
his thoughts were all of hazard and keen blows. They crossed the
Lancashire border; and, when Kit learned that the route lay through
Skipton-in-Craven, his heart warmed to the skirmish that his fancy
painted. He was looking backward to that crashing fight--the first of
his life--when the White Horsemen drove through the Roundhead gun-convoy
and swirled down to battle in the High Street. He was looking forward,
as a boy does, to a resurrection of that fight, under the like
conditions.
Instead, he found the business of market-day in full swing. The Castle
was silent. Lambert's guns, away on Cock Hill, were dumb. Farmers were
selling ewes and cattle, were standing at inn doors, wind and wine of
the country in their honest faces.
"What is all this?" asked Rupert of a jolly countryman.
"Skipton Fair--naught more or less. There's a two days' truce, or some
such moonshine, while either side go burying their dead. For my part,
I've sold three heifers, and sold 'em well. I'm content."
Rupert had had in mind to go into the Castle, and snatch a meal and an
hour of leisure there while he talked with the Governor. He could not
do it now. Punctilio--the word spelt honesty to him--forbade it. He
glanced about and saw Kit close beside him.
"Knock at the gate, Mr. Metcalf, and bid Sir John Mallory come out and
talk with me."
The drawbridge was down in accordance with the truce, and Kit clattered
over it on his white horse. He knocked at the gate, and sent Prince
Rupert's message forward. In a little while Mallory came out, a
pleasant gentleman, built for hard riding and all field sports, whom
Providence had entrusted with this do-nothing, lazy business of sitting
behind walls besieged.
"The Prince commands you, Sir John," said Kit, with great precision.
Formality was ended on the instant; for Mallory clapped him on the
shoulder and laughed like a boy let loose for play. "By the Lord Harry,
I'm glad to get out of doors--and for Rupert, of all men."
In the great sweep of roadway that mounted to the Castle gate--the grey,
comely church beside it--Prince Rupert met Mallory with hand
outstretched.
"Well done, friend! If it had not been a day of truce, I had hoped to
come indoors and crack a bottle with you. As matters stand, we hope to
slake our thirst at a more convenient time."
"There's no hindrance, your Highness. Lambert, who besieges us, is
doubtless entertaining friends at the Quaker meeting-house in this good
town. Why should you not accept the warmer sort of hospitality we
Cavaliers affect?"
"Oh, a whim. I can tell you in the open here--No Man's Ground--what I
came to tell you. It would not be fair to hide my news behind closed
gates."
Mallory glanced sharply at him. Rupert's fury in attack, his relentless
gallop through one battle after another---the man's whole record--had
not prepared him for this waywardness of scruple. The next moment
Rupert's face was keen and hard.
"We ride for York, Sir John," he said, "and I give you the same errand I
shall give Knaresborough's garrison later on. Keep Lambert busy. Sortie
till these Roundheads have no rest, day or night. Turn siege into
attack. The Lady of Lathom has taught us what a slender garrison may
do."
"Does she hold out still?" asked the other eagerly. "We have so little
news these days."
"She has captured twenty-seven standards, friend, and is rebuilding her
walls in preparation for the next siege."
"God be thanked!" said Sir John, lifting his hat. "There are so few
great ladies in our midst."
"And so few great gentlemen, Mallory. Nay, friend, do not redden
because I praise you to your face. We know Skipton's story."
Lambert was not at the Quakers' meeting-house, as it chanced. He was on
Cock Hill, passing the time of inaction away by looking down on the
Castle that had flouted him so often. His thrifty mind was busy with
new methods of attack, when he saw Rupert with his advance-guard come up
the High Street. The light--a strong sun beating down through heavy
rain-clouds---showed a clear picture of the horsemen. By the carriage of
their heads, by the way they sat their horses, Lambert knew them for
Cavaliers. As he was puzzling out the matter--loth to doubt Sir John
Mallory's good faith--a man of the town came running up.
"The truce is broken, Captain Lambert. Here's a rogue with
love-locks--they say he's Prince Rupert--come with a press of horsemen.
He's talking with Sir John Mallory fair in front of the Castle gateway."
Lambert's temper fired. What he had seen accorded with the townsman's
view. Something quixotic in the man's nature, that always waited on his
unguarded moments, bade him go down and ask the meaning of it all. It
seemed to him that his faith in all men would go, root and branch, if
Sir John Mallory were indeed less than a simple, upright gentleman. He
reached the High Street, and made his way through the press of soldiery
and townsfolk till he reached the wide space, in front of church and
Castle, where the Prince stood with Mallory.
"Sir John," he said very coldly, "I come to ask if you break truce by
free will or compulsion."
"By compulsion, sir," said Rupert, with a quick smile. "I ride too fast
for knowledge of each town's days of truce. Sir John here came out at
my request, to talk with me. You are Captain Lambert, I take it? Ah,
we have heard of you--have heard matters to your credit, if you will
permit an adversary so much freedom."
Lambert yielded a little to the other's easy charm; but it was plain
that the grievance rankled still.
"Well, then, I'll give you punctilio for punctilio, sir," went on
Rupert. "The King's needs are urgent I could not wait--truce or no, I
had to give my orders to Sir John here. To be precise, I urged him to
harry you unceasingly. I told him that we were pressing forward to the
relief of York. Is honour satisfied? If not, name a convenient hour for
hostilities to open. My men are here. Yours are on the hill yonder,
where your guns look down on us."
Lambert's humour, deep-hidden, was touched at last. "Press on to York,
by your leave. Mallory, I'm in your debt. I doubted your good faith
just now."
"That was unwise, Lambert. Eh, man, the troubled days will soon be
ended--then, if we're both alive, come sup with me as of old."
Kit, when they took the road again, was bewildered a little by the
shifting issues of this madness known as civil war. The Prince,
Lambert, and Sir John--three men conspicuously survivals from Crusading
days--had talked in the High Street of honour and punctilio---had shown
the extreme courtesy of knights prepared to tilt against each other in
the ring at any moment---and all this with the assault of Bolton and the
red havoc of it scarcely ended, with rough fights ahead, and York's
garrison in piteous need of succour.
"Why so moody, li'le Christopher?" asked Michael, riding at his
brother's bridle-hand.
"I fancied war was simple, and I'm losing myself among the mists,
somehow."
"An old trick of yours. Mistress Joan taught it you. There was a lady,
too, in Knaresborough, who gave you lessons in the pastime."
"But this Captain Lambert is besieging Skipton, and Mallory defends it,
and one asks the other to sup with him when the affair is over. That is
not stark fighting, Michael."
"Why not, lad? Lambert's cannon will thunder just as merrily when the
truce is ended. The world jogs after that fashion."
It was when they were pressing on to York the next day--after a brief
night's sleep in the open and a breakfast captured by each man as best
he could--that the Prince rode back to the white company of horses that
carried the Metcalf clan. He reined about on finding Michael.
"You found your way into York once for me, sir. You will do it a second
time. Bid them be ready. Tell them we travel as quickly as may be, and
sorties from their three main gates, when the moment comes, will be of
service."
"My thanks for the errand. May I ask a second boon, your Highness?"
"Oh, I think one would grant you anything in reason. A man with your
merry eyes is privileged."
"I had a sutler's donkey with me in the first attempt. She brought me
luck, undoubtedly--we had the like temperament, she and I--but we lost
her during these forced marches. Can I have Christopher here to share
the venture?"
Kit reddened, then laughed the jest aside. And the Prince, as he looked
at these two, so dissimilar and yet so full of comradeship, thought of
his own brother Maurice, and wished that he were here.
"Ay, take him with you," he said; "he will steady your venture. And,
gentlemen, take your route at once."
"You heard what he said?" asked Christopher, after the Prince had
spurred forward to the main body. "I shall steady your venture.
There's a counter for your talk of donkeys, Michael."
Michael said nothing. As one who knew his brother's weakness, he waited
till they were well on their way to York, and had reached a finger-post
where four cross-roads met.
"We might go by way of Ripley," he hazarded, pointing to the left-hand
road.
"Why, yes," said Kit unguardedly. "It is the nearest way, and the road
better--
"The road even viler, and the distance a league more. I said we _might_
take the Ripley way. In sober earnest, we go wide of Mistress Joan."
"Who spoke of Joan Grant?"
"Your cheeks, lad, and the note in your voice. Nay, no heat. D'ye think
the Prince gave us this venture for you to go standing under yon Ripley
casement, sighing for the moon that lives behind it? York would be
relieved and all over, before I steadied you."
"You've no heart, Michael."
"None, lad; and I'm free of trouble, by that token."
And Kit, the young fire in his veins, did not know that Michael was
jesting at the grave of his own hopes. That upper chamber--the look of
Mistress Joan, her pride and slenderness--were matters that had pierced
the light surface of his life, once for all.
"The York country was eaten bare when I last went through it," he said,
after they had ridden a league in silence. "It will be emptier now.
Best snatch a meal at the tavern here, Kit, while we have the chance.
Our wits will need feeding if we're to find our way into York."
They found a cheery host, a table well spread with cold meats. When the
host returned with wine, ordered hastily, he glanced at his guests with
an air that was half humorous and half secretive.
"Here is the wine, Mr. Metcalf," he said--"the best of a good cellar,
though I say it."
"Eh?" drawled Michael, always most indolent when surprised. "You know
my name, it seems."
"Well, sir, if two big, lusty gentry choose to come riding two white
horses--and all the Plain o' York ringing with news of the Riding
Metcalfs--small blame to me if I guessed your quality. I'm a King's
man, too."
"You'd best prove it quickly," said Michael, with a gentle laugh. "The
business we ride on asks for sacrifice, and a fat host or two would not
be missed."
"I am asking to prove it." The way of the man, the jolly red of his
face, and the eyes that were clear as honesty, did not admit of doubt.
"In the little room across the passage there are three crop-headed
Puritans dining--dining well, and I grudge 'em every mouthful. They're
not ashamed to take their liquor, too; and whether 'twas that, or
whether they fancied I was as slow-witted as I seemed, they babbled of
what was in the doing."
"I always had the luck," said Michael impassively. "Had they the
password through the ranks besieging York?"
"Ay, that; and more. They had papers with them; one was drying them at
the fire, after the late storm o' rain that had run into his pocket, and
it seemed they were come with orders for the siege. I should say they
were high in office with the Puritans, for they carried the three
sourest faces I've seen since I was breeked."
"The papers can wait. What was the password, host?"
"_Idolatry_. It seemed a heathenish word, and I remembered it."
"Good," laughed Michael. "To-morrow it will be Mariolatry, doubtless,
and Red Rome on the next day. How these folk love a gibe at His
Majesty's sound Churchmanship! They carry papers, you say? It is all
diverting, host. My brother here will not admit that luck, pure and
simple, is a fine horse to ride. Kit, we must see that little room
across the passage."
Michael got to his feet, finished his wine in three leisurely gulps,
then moved to the closed door, which he opened without ceremony. The
three Parliament men had their heads together at the board, and one was
emphasising an argument by drumming with a forefinger on the papers
spread before them. They turned sharply as the door opened, and reached
out for their weapons when they saw Michael step into the room, followed
by a lesser giant.
[Illustration: "They turned sharply as the door opened, and reached out
for their weapons."]
"_Idolatry_, friends," said Michael suavely.
The three looked at each other with puzzled question. These strangers
wore their hair in the fashion dear to Cavaliers, and they carried an
intangible air that suggested lightness of spirit.
"You have the password," said one; "but your fashion is the fashion of
Belial's sons. What would you?"
"We come with full powers to claim your papers and to do your errand
with the forces now besieging York. To be candid, you are suspect of
eating more and drinking more than sober Parliament men should--and,
faith, your crowded table here bears out the scandal."
The three flushed guiltily, then gathered the dourness that stood to
them for strength; and Kit wondered what was passing through his
brother's nimble brain.
"Your credentials," snapped the one who seemed to be leader of the
three.
Michael, glancing round the board, saw a great pasty, with the mincemeat
showing through where the knife had cut it. "Oh, my own password is
_Christmas-pie_, friends! I encountered the dish at Banbury, and a
great uproar followed when my brother gave it the true name."
And now the Roundheads knew that they were being played with. So great
was their party's abhorrence of anything which savoured of the Mass,
that a dish, pleasant in itself, had long since grown to be a
shibboleth.
The first man raised a pistol--a weapon that seemed out of keeping with
his preacher's garb--but Kit, longing for action instead of all this
play of words, ran in with a jolly laugh, lifted his man high, as one
lifts a child in frolic, and let him drop. The pistol fell, too, and the
trigger snapped; but the Parliament man, however strong his trust in
Providence might be, had forgotten Cromwell's other maxim--that he
should keep his powder dry.
Michael's voice was very gentle. "I said we came with full powers. It
would be wiser not to play with fire. Indeed, we do not wish you ill,
and, in proof of friendship, we are willing to change clothes with you."
A little later Michael and Christopher came out, locking the door behind
them. They asked the astonished host for scissors, and bade him clip
their locks as close as he could contrive without knowledge of the
barber's art. And it was odd that these two, who six months ago had
been close-cropped in Yoredale, resented the loss of the lovelocks they
had grown in deference to fashion. To them it seemed as if they were
losing the badge of loyalty, as if the fat host played Delilah to their
Samson.
"Keep that easy carriage of your bodies down, gentles, if you're bent on
play-acting," said Boniface, with a cheery grin.
"How should we walk, then?"
"With a humble stoop, sir--a very humble stoop--that was how the three
Parliament men came in and asked for the best victuals I could give
'em."
Michael's laugh was easy-going; but, for all that, his orders were
precise and sharp. Their horses, of the tell-tale white, were to be
stabled securely out of eyeshot, and well tended until called for. He
and Kit would ride out on the pick of the three Roundhead cattle.
"As for that, sir, there's no pick, in a manner of speaking. They rode
in on the sorriest jades I ever saw at a horse-fair."
"We'll take the rough luck with the smooth."
Yet even Michael grew snappish when he saw the steeds they had to ride.
It was only when Kit laughed consumedly at sight of them that he
recovered his good humour.
"After all, sir," suggested Boniface, "it proves the loyalty of the
country hereabouts. They couldn't get decent horseflesh, for love or
money. Our folk would only sell them stuff ready for the knacker's
yard."
"That has a pleasant sound for us, with all between this and York to
travel."
"Take two o' my beasts, gentles, if there's haste. You're cropped
enough, and in quiet clothes enough, to ride good horses--always
granting their colour doesn't happen to be white. As for these two o'
mine, one is a roan, t'other a darkish bay."
Michael was arrested by the host's thoroughness and zeal, his disregard
of his own safety. "And you, when you unlock the door on these rogues?"
"I shall fare as I shall fare, and not grumble either way. For your
part, get away on the King's business, and God guide him safe, say I."
"But at least there's our reckoning to pay."
"Not a stiver. Nay, I'll not hear of it. Am I so poor a King's man
that I grudge a cut from the joint and a bottle to the Riding Metcalfs?"
Michael warmed afresh to the man's loyalty. "Our thanks, host. As for
the three in yonder, they'll not trouble you. I told them the door
would be unlocked in an hour's time, explained that my folk were in the
neighbourhood, and warned them to save their skins as best they could.
You'll laugh till there are no more tears to shed when you see two of
them in their bravery. Till I die that picture will return--their two
sad faces set on top of our gay finery."
With a nod and a cheery call to his horse, he took the road again; and
Kit and he spurred fast to recover the lost ground until they reached a
steep and winding hill. For their cattle's sake they were compelled to
take a breather at the top, and Kit looked over the rolling wolds with a
heart on fire for Rupert and the errand. Somewhere yonder, under the
blue, misty haze, lay York, the city old to courage and the hazard. New
hazards were in the making; it behoved Michael and himself to give no
spoiled page to York's long story.
"What a lad for dreams it is!" said Michael, in his gentlest voice.
Kit turned, and the sight of Michael habited in sober gear, with a
steeple hat to crown the picture, broke down his dreams. It is good
that comedy and the high resolve are friends who seldom ride apart. "The
two we changed gear with, Michael--you would not laugh at them if you
could see yourself."
"I have a good mirror, Kit, in you."
So they eyed each other for a while, and took their fill of merriment.
Then they went forward. What the end of the venture was to be, they
hazarded no guess; but at least they had papers and a garb that would
pass them safely through the lines at York.
Another Royalist was abroad, as it happened, on a venture that to her
own mind was both hazardous and lonely. The donkey that had helped
Michael to secure his first entry into York--the patient, strong-minded
ass that had followed the Riding Metcalfs south and had grown to be the
luck of their superstitious company--had been lost on the march between
Lathom House and Skipton. She had been stolen by a travelling pedlar,
who found her browsing in a thistle-field a mile behind the army she
hoped to overtake a little later on. He owned her for a day; and then,
high spirit getting the better of dejection, she bided her time, shot
out two hind-feet that left him helpless in the road, and set out on the
quest that led to Michael--Michael, who might command her anything,
except to go forward in the direction of her head.
To Elizabeth--her name among the Metcalfs--the forward journey was full
of trouble and bewilderment. She followed them easily enough as far as
Skipton, and some queer instinct guided her up the High Street and into
the country beyond Otley. Then tiredness came on her, and she shambled
forward at haphazard. At long last she blundered into Ripley; and,
either because she knew the look of the Castle gateway, or because she
gave up all for lost, she stood there and brayed plaintively.
A sentry peered from the top of the gate-tower. "Who goes there?" he
demanded gruffly.