Riding Metcalfs that, if the battle sped, Ripley could look to its own
needs. If the fight was lost, we were to come soon or syne--those left
of us--to guard you."
Lady Ingilby reined in--an easy matter with the pensioner that carried
her. "In these evil modern times, are there still so many of the elder
breed? One here and there I could understand, but not six-score of
you."
"There are fewer now. We lost a few at Bolton, and Marston Moor was
worse. Those who are left will come in. Their word is pledged."
The spaciousness of summer on the hills returned to Lady Ingilby.
Siege, and hardship, and the red fight at Marston went by. Here was a
man who had fought, lost blood and kindred to the cause--a man simple,
exact to the promise made.
"I am glad of your escort, after all," she said. "You were breeked in
the olden time, I think."
"What is our route?" asked Christopher by and by.
"To Marston. If my husband is abroad, well. If he's dead or dying, he
may need me."
It seemed to Kit, through all the perils of the road, through the
instant dangers that beset them from the thievish folk who hang upon the
skirts of war, that a little, silver light went on ahead, guarding their
passage. But he was country-born and fanciful. At Ripley, Michael the
careless went indoors and found the old man-servant fidgeting about the
hall.
"Well, Waddilove," he said, throwing himself on the long-settle, and
holding his hands to the fire-blaze, "it seems long since I knew you as
body-servant to Sir Peter Grant in Yoredale. I've fought and marched,
and had my moments--ay, Ben, moments of sheer rapture when we
charged--and now I come from Marston, and all's ended, save a thirst
that will drink your cellars dry before I slake it."
Waddilove did not know "Maister Michael" in this mood of weariness. "Ye
used to be allus so light-hearted, come shine or storm," he muttered.
"That is the worst of a high reputation. One falls to earth, old
sinner. I've no jest, no hope, nothing but this amazing thirst. If
there's wine left in the Castle, bring it."
Ben was literal in interpretation of an order. When he returned, he
brought two bottles of Madeira and a rummer-glass.
"Oh, good!" said Michael, with something of his old laugh. "Fire and
wine--I need them." He kicked the logs into a blaze. "It seems odd to
need warmth, with midsummer scarce past, but I've brought a great
coldness from the Moor. Gentlemen of the King's--men who should be
living for him--are lying where they fell. There was no room for a
horse's hoofs; one had to trample the loyal dead. Wine, Ben! Pour me a
brimmer for forgetfulness."
And now Waddilove understood that this gay wastrel of the Metcalfs was
on the edge of sickness--not of the body only, or the mind, but of the
two. In his eyes there was a fever and a dread. Not knowing what to
do--whether wine were friend or adversary--he obeyed the order. Michael
drained the glass in one long, satisfying gulp. "One can buy peace so
easily--at a price," he said. "Fill again for me, Daniel, and we'll
drink confusion to Noll Cromwell."
While the wine was between the bottle and the glass, a little lady came
into the hall. She had a carrot in her hand, and trouble was lurking in
her young, patrician face.
"Who is this, Ben?" she asked, withdrawing a step or two, as she saw the
patched and mud-stained figure on the settle.
"Michael Metcalf, at your service. No need to ask your servant vouch
for me."
He had risen. From his great height, shivering and unsteady, he looked
down at her.
"But, sir, you are unlike yourself. Your eyes are wild."
"So would your pretty eyes be, Mistress Joan, if you'd shared Marston
Fight with me. I've seen a King lose his cause--his head may follow."
Joan was aware of some new strength behind the man's present disarray.
"Does your love for the King go so deep, then? We thought you light of
heart."
"Always the same gibe. I have talked with the King, and I know. Our
lives were slight in the losing, if we had given him the battle. But we
lost it. What matters now, Joan?"
"This, sir--that the King still needs his gentlemen."
Michael stood to attention. She had always bettered his outlook on
life, even in his careless days. Now, with every nerve at strain, she
showed him a glad, narrow track that went upward, climbing by the ladder
of adversity.
"As for that," he said, with an odd smile, "I thank you for a word in
season. It will keep Sir William's cellars from a period of drought."
Waddilove, watching the man, could only wonder at his sharp return to
self-control. He did not know that, so far as Michael was concerned,
Joan Grant brought always the gift of healing.
"Heartsease, that's for remembrance," said Michael, after a troubled
silence, "and carrots, they're for Elizabeth the well-beloved."
She caught the sudden hope, the challenge in his glance. Clearly as if
he had put the thought into speech, she knew that he clung to the old
love, told more than once in Yoredale. He hoped--so wild a lover's
fancy can be--that, because she fed his ass with dainties, she did it
for the master's sake.
"Ah, no," she said sharply. "It is not good to play at make-believe.
There is trouble at our doors--the King's cause drowning, and men lying
dead out yonder. I go to feed Elizabeth, and you, sir, will stay here
to guard the house."
Michael kicked the logs into a blaze, and watched the flames go up with
a steady, thrifty roar. He turned presently, to find Waddilove asking
whether he did not need a second brimmer of Madeira.
"To-morrow, you old fool! For to-night, I've the house to guard.
Meanwhile, I've lit a lively fire--all my hopes, Ben, and most of my
prayers, have gone scummering up the chimney-stack. I trust they find
good weather out o' doors."
Christopher and Lady Ingilby, about this time, were nearing Marston
Moor. As they reached Tockwith village, and were passing the farmstead
where Cromwell had dressed the wound in his neck not long ago, five men
rode out at them through the rosy light of dawn. Christopher, with
battle still in his blood, shot the first at close quarters--a red and
messy business. Then he reined about, with the instinct taught him by
Rupert's cavalry, turned again, and charged the four remaining.
He found himself in the stour of it; for they were thick-set rogues, and
had little to lose in this world or the next. It seemed that they must
bear him down, after he had accounted for another of their number with
his sword. Then a second pistol-shot rang out, and the man nearest Kit
dropped from saddle as a fat, red plum falls from an autumn branch. His
horse stampeded, and the two riders left galloped headlong for the
woods.
Kit returned to find Lady Ingilby with a smoking pistol in her hand.
Her voice was tremulous.
"Sir, if this is to feel as men do--ah, thank the good God I was born a
woman. I aimed truly, and--and I have no pride in it."
Through the sunrise and the hot, moist scent of flowering hedgerows they
made their way down the narrow farm-track which was henceforth to be
known as Rupert's Lane. At the ditch and the battered hedgerow where
Cromwell's horse had been driven back, a man on foot asked sharply who
went there.
"Lady Ingilby, come to see whether her husband lives or is dead for the
King."
[Illustration: "'Lady Ingilby, come to see whether her husband lives or
is dead for the King.'"]
"I cannot tell you, madam. There are so many dead, on both sides of the
battle."
"But I must know. Give us free conduct through the lines, my friend
here and myself; it is a little thing to ask."
The Parliament man was muffled in a great-coat, an unwieldy hat drawn
over his eyes. But Christopher knew him, though Ingilby's wife, her
heart set on one errand only, saw beyond and through him, scarce knowing
he was there save as an obstacle to progress down the lane.
"It is granted," said the Roundhead, "if you permit me to bandage your
eyes until we come to the place where Sir William fought. I know the
place, because our men brought in high tales of his strength and
courage."
"But why the bandage?" she asked peremptorily.
"Because, between here and where he fought, there are sights not good
for any woman's eyes."
"Ah, tut! I've nursed men at Ripley who were not good to see. Their
wounds were taken for the King, and so were pleasant."
They went through what had been the centre of the King's army--went
through all that was left of the Whitecoats, thick-huddled with their
faces to the sky. For a moment even Ingilby's wife was dizzy and
appalled. There was no scent of summer hedgerows now. Then she took
hold again of her unalterable courage.
"Oh, they died well. Lead on."
They came to the place where Sir William's company had fought; and the
sun, gaining strength already to drive through the mists of last night's
thunderstorm, showed her the faces of many folk remembered, but not her
husband's.
"I thank God," she said simply. Then, as she turned to retrace her
steps, the inbred courtesy of the woman surmounted the pain that had
gone before, the passionate thanksgiving that followed. "I thank you,
too, for conduct through the lines. What is your name, that I may
remember it in my prayers?"
"At Ripley they would name me Noll Cromwell. I ask no thanks, and need
none."
It was all muddled and astounding, as the battle of last night had been.
The man she had scolded not long ago at Ripley--the man whose soul she
had whipped raw, though she did not guess it--had offered courtesy. For
this hour, at any rate, Cromwell was a mystic, seeing with the clearer
vision and knowing the kind lash of penance. Since this wild campaign
began, drawing him from his quiet estate in Rutland, he had known no
happiness till now. This woman had flouted him; yet he was glad, with
an amazing gladness, to succour her in need.
A man came running, and said that General Cromwell was needed in
Tockwith village, where some trouble had broken out among his men. The
mystic disappeared. The Cromwell of sheer flesh and blood showed
himself. "Trouble, is there?" he snapped. "I've a short way with
trouble of that sort. As for you, Lady Ingilby, the password is
_Endeavour_, and I would recommend you to secure your retreat at once."
With a half-defiant salute he was gone, and, as they came again to the
place where the Whitecoats lay, a party of Roundhead horsemen, riding
by, halted suddenly.
"You are on the King's side," said the leader, with a sharp glance at
Christopher. "I am Captain Murray, at your service, of Leslie's horse.
I know you because you all but killed me in that last rally Rupert made.
What, in the de'il's name, are you doing here--and with a lady?"
"We are under safe-conduct through the lines. Cromwell gave us the word
_Endeavour_ not five minutes since."
"Well, I need you, as it happens. There are many of your dead in
Wilstrop Wood, and General Leslie has a soft heart--after the fight is
done--like most Scotsmen. He sends me to find a King's man who can name
the dead. 'They have wives and bairns, nae doot,' said Leslie in his
dry way, 'and ill news is better than no news at a', for those who bide
at hame.'"
Lady Ingilby was not sorry when her request to go with Kit was refused.
After all, she had breakfasted on horrors and could take no further meal
as yet.
"If he is there, Christopher," she whispered, "you will take me. If you
do not find him, well. Either way, there is the God above us."
When they came to Wilstrop Wood--Lady Ingilby staying on the outskirts
with three dour Scotsmen as a guard of honour--the wind was rustling
through the trees. And from the ground there was a harsher rustle--the
stir and unrest of men who could not die just yet, however they longed
for the prison-gate of flesh to open.
The red-gold sunlight filtered through the cobwebs spun from tree to
tree of Wilstrop Wood. And even Murray, who counted himself
hard-bitten, stood aghast at what he saw. The underwood was white with
bodies of the slain.
A great wrath and pity brought Kit's temper to a sudden heat. "Captain
Murray," he said, "these dead have been robbed of all that hides their
nakedness. I say it is a foul deed. Better have lost the fight
than--than this."
"You will tell it to the world?" stammered Murray.
"Yes, if I win free of this. It shall be blazoned through the North,
till there's none but knows of it."
Murray halted irresolute. If the Scotsman had been of grosser make, Kit
would have joined the company of King's men who slept in Wilstrop Wood.
It was easy, with the men he had at call, to silence this hot-headed
youngster.
"That is your resolve?" he asked slowly.
"D'ye doubt it? Captain Murray, it is a loathsome business enough to
pick the pockets of the dead, but to take clothes and all----"
"The Scots had no hand in it, I tell ye. Our lads hae over-muckle care
for the dead of either side. But I aye mistrusted those Psalm-singing
rogues. Will ye take it at that?"
"There's a sickness in the middle of me," said Christopher, with tired
simplicity. "What is your business with me here in Wilstrop Wood?"
Murray conquered his first impulse to put Kit's tongue out of harm's way
once for all. "As I told you, sir, General Leslie's heart is tender as
a maudlin woman's--now the battle is won, and his own wounds patched
up--and needs must that you identify the dead."
Christopher, who seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, was a true
Dalesman. By letting the world see the froth and bubble of the upper
waters, he hid the deeper pools. As they went through the wood, the
sunlight filtering through on ground for ever to be haunted, he knew, by
the whiteness of their skins, that the greater part of the fallen were
gentry of the King's. Instinct, quick to help a man, told him it was
unwise to admit the loss of so many officers to the cause, though he
knew many faces there--faces of men who had shared fight or bivouac with
him somewhere between this and Oxford.
"They must rest where they lie, for all the help I can give you," he
said impassively, "and may God have mercy on their souls."
"Sir, I wonder at your calm," snapped Murray; "but now I understand.
All you Papists have that quiet air of ease."
"Up in Yoredale we heard nothing of the Pope, but much of prayers for
those who crossed the fighting-line ahead of us."
Murray thought he made nothing of this lad; yet at heart he knew that,
through all the moil and stench of Marston, he, too, was going back
along the years--going back to the knees of his mother, whose prayers
for him he thought forgotten long since.
As they were making their way through the wood again, a slim youngster,
stark naked, lifted himself on an elbow and babbled in his weakness.
"Have we won, friend?" he asked, looking at Kit and Murray with starry,
fevered eyes.
"Aye," said Murray, Scottish pity warring with regard for truth. "We've
won, my laddie."
"Then unfasten this bracelet from my wrist. Oh, quick, you fools--the
time's short! Take it to Miss Bingham, out at Knaresborough yonder, and
tell her I died as well as might be. Tell her Marston Moor is won for
the King."
And with that there came a rattle in his throat. And he crossed himself
with a feeble forefinger.
"Dear God," said Murray, "the light about his face! You simple gallants
have the laugh of us when it comes to the high affair of dying."
Christopher said nothing, after closing the eyes of a gentleman the King
could ill afford to lose. And so they came out of Wilstrop Wood, and
found Lady Ingilby again.
"Does he lie there?" she asked sharply.
"I did not see him," answered Kit.
"I am almost--almost happy. You did not find him? Come; they'll be
needing us at Ripley."
*CHAPTER XX.*
*THE HOMELESS DAYS.*
Marston Moor was fought and ended. A mortal blow had been struck at the
King's cause in the North; and yet the Metcalfs, rallying round Lady
Ingilby at Ripley, would not admit as much. The King must come to his
own, they held, and Marston was just an unlucky skirmish that mattered
little either way.
York capitulated, and Squire Metcalf, when the news was brought at
supper-time, shrugged his shoulders.
"It's a pity," he said. "We must get on without the good town of
York--that is all."
Lady Ingilby glanced across at him. For the first time since Marston
Moor she smiled. "And if all is lost, will you still believe that the
world goes very well?"
A great sob broke from the Squire, against his will or knowledge. "Lady
Ingilby, there are fewer Metcalfs than there were," he explained
shame-facedly. "I went through Marston Fight, moreover. It is not my
faith that weakens--it is just that I am human, and my courage fails."
None spoke for a while. The mistress of Ripley, on her knees in the
chapelry, or busying herself about her men's needs, had learned what the
Squire had learned. Those who had gone through the stress and anguish
of the late battle, and the women who had waited here between closed
walls for news to come, all caught the wonder of this moment. It was as
if some Presence were among them, interpreting the rough strife of sword
and pike.
"If there were two Metcalfs left of us all," said the Squire, his big
voice humorous in its gentleness, "we should still believe that all was
well with King Charles. And, if one fell, t'other would be glad to be
the last to die for His Majesty."
The moment passed. It was too intimate, too filled with knowledge of
the over-world, for long continuance. Metcalf filled his glass afresh.
The men were glad to follow his good example.
"Your health, Lady Ingilby--your good health," said the Squire.
While they were drinking the toast, the outer door was opened hurriedly,
and a little, wiry man came in. His face was tired, and his clothes
were stained with rain and mud.
"Gad, here's Blake!" laughed Kit Metcalf. "Blake, the rider--I saw him
bring the Metcalfs into Oxford."
Blake nodded cheerily. "Life has its compensations. I shall remember
that ride down Oxford High Street until I die, I think. Lady Ingilby,
I've a message from your husband, for your private ear."
A great stillness had come to Lady Ingilby, a certainty of herself and
of the men about her. "He was always a good lover. You can give his
message to the public ear."
"He escaped from Marston with twenty men, and hid in Wilstrop Wood.
There was carnage there, but your lord escaped. And afterwards he fell
in with Prince Rupert, returning with volunteers from the garrison at
York. He bids me tell you he is safe."
"Was that all his message, Mr. Blake?"
"No, it was not all, but--but the rest is for your private ear, believe
me."
"I--am very tired. My courage needs some open praise. What was my
lord's message?"
Blake stooped to whisper in her ear, and Lady Ingilby laughed. Keen
youth was in her face. "Gentlemen, it was a vastly tender message. I am
proud, and--and a woman again, I think, after all this discipline of
war. My husband bids me hold Ripley Castle for as long as may be, if
the Metcalfs come."
"There never was much 'if' about a Metcalf," said the old Squire. "Our
word was pledged before ever Marston Fight began."
"Oh, he knew as much, but you forget, sir, that many hindrances might
have come between your pledged word and yourselves. You might have died
to a man, as the Whitecoats did--God rest them."
The Squire's bluntness softened. The tenderness that is in the heart of
every Yorkshireman showed plainly in his face. "True. We might all
have died. As it is, there are many gaps that will have to be explained
to the goodwife up in Yoredale."
And again there was a wonder and a stillness in the hall, none knowing
why, till Lady Ingilby broke silence. "Such gaps need no explaining.
They are filled by a golden light, and in the midst of it a rude wooden
cross, and over it the words 'For Valour.' There, gentlemen, I weary
you with dreams. Lest you think me fanciful, let me fill your glasses
for you. It will do you no harm to drink deep to-night, and the
sentries are ready at their posts."
They could make nothing of her. Gay, alert, she went about the board,
the wine-jug in her hands. The message from her lord that Blake had
whispered seemed to have taken a score years from her life, as strong
sun eats up a rimy frost. When she bade them good-night and passed out,
it was as if a spirit of great charm and well-being had gone and left
them dull.
On the morrow there was work enough to keep them busy. The fall of York
had sent Cromwell's men like a swarm of bees about the land. Dour and
unimaginative in battle, they ran wild when victory was theirs. Men who
had been plough-boys and farm-hinds a year since were filled with heady
glee that they had helped to bring the great ones low. Some of their
officers could not believe--honestly, each man to his conscience--that
there was any good or usefulness in gentlemen of the King's who wore
love-locks because it was the habit of their class, and who chanced to
carry a fine courage under frivolous wearing-gear.
The Squire of Nappa was roused, somewhere about five of the clock, by a
din and shouting from the courtyard underneath his bed-chamber. At
first he fancied he was back on Marston Field again, and raised a sleepy
challenge. Then, as the uproar increased, he got out of bed, stretched
himself with one big, satisfying yawn, and threw the casement open.
The summer's dawn was moist and fragrant. His eyes, by instinct, sought
the sky-line where, in Yoredale, hills would be. Here he saw only
rolling country that billowed into misty spaces, with a blurred and
ruddy sun above it all. The fragrance of wet earth and field flowers
came in with the warm morning breeze. He was a countryman again, glad
to be alive on a June day.
Then he returned to soldiery, looked down on the press of men below, and
his face hardened. "Give you good-morrow, Cropheads," he said gently.
"And who may you be?" asked the leader of the troop.
"A Mecca for the King. Ah, you've heard that rally-call before, I
fancy. Your own name, sir?"
"Elihu Give-the-Praise."
"Be pleased to be serious. That is a nickname, surely."
A storm of protest came from the soldiery, and Elihu took heart of grace
again.
"Idolaters and wine-bibbers, all of you," he said, vindictiveness and
martyrdom struggling for the mastery. "Since I forswore brown ale and
kept the narrow track, men know me as Elihu Give-the-Praise."
"Then, as one who relishes brown ale, I ask you what your business is,
disturbing a Riding Metcalf when he needs his sleep?"
"Our business is short and sharp--to bid you surrender, or we sack the
Castle."
"Your business is like to be long and tedious," laughed the Squire, and
shut the casement.
He crossed to the landing and lifted a hale cry of "Rouse yourself,
Meccas! What lads you are for sleeping!" And there was a sudden tumult
within doors louder than the din of Puritans outside. It was then, for
the first time, that Lady Ingilby, running from her chamber with a loose
wrap thrown about her disarray, understood the full meaning of clan
discipline.
The men who answered the rally-call were heavy with sleep and in no good
temper; but they stood waiting for their orders without protest. When
the Squire told them what was in the doing, their faces cleared. Sleep
went by them like a dream forgotten. The Roundheads underneath fired
some random shots, as a token of what would follow if there were no
surrender; and, in reply, spits of flame ran out from every loophole of
the Castle front. They were not idle shots. Elihu Give-the-Praise,
with a stiff courage of his own, tried to rally his men, in spite of a
splintered arm; but a second flight of bullets rained about them, and
panic followed.
"A thrifty dawn," said the Squire of Nappa, as if he danced at a
wedding.
For that day, and for three days thereafter, there was little sleep
within the Ripley walls. Parliament men, in scattered companies,
marched to replace the slain and wounded. There were sorties from the
Castle, and ready fire from the loopholes overhead; and in the courtyard
space lay many bodies that neither side could snatch for decent burial.
There was not only famine sitting on the Ripley threshold now, but
pestilence; for the moist heat of the summer was not good for dead or
living men.
In the middle watch of the fourth night, Squire Metcalf heard a company
of horsemen clatter up to the main gate. He thrust his head through a
casement of the tower--the loopholes had been widened in these modern
days--and asked gruffly the strangers' errand.
"Surrender while you can, Nappa men," said the foremost horseman.
"It is not our habit."