Produced by Polly Stratton
THE TAVERN KNIGHT
By Rafael Sabatini
CONTENTS
I. ON THE MARCH
II. ARCADES AMBO
III. THE LETTER
IV. AT THE SIGN OF THE MITRE
V. AFTER WORCESTER FIELD
VI. COMPANIONS IN MISFORTUNE
VII. THE TAVERN KNIGHT'S STORY
VIII. THE TWISTED BAR
IX. THE BARGAIN
X. THE ESCAPE
XI. THE ASHBURNS
XII. THE HOUSE THAT WAS ROLAND MARLEIGH'S
XIII. THE METAMORPHOSIS OF KENNETH
XIV. THE HEART OF CYNTHIA ASHBURN
XV. JOSEPH'S RETURN
XVI. THE RECKONING
XVII. JOSEPH DRIVES A BARGAIN
XVIII. COUNTER-PLOT
XIX. THE INTERRUPTED JOURNEY
XX. THE CONVERTED HOGAN
XXI. THE MESSAGE KENNETH BORE
XXII. SIR CRISPIN'S UNDERTAKING
XXIII. GREGORY'S ATTRITION
XXIV. THE WOOING OF CYNTHIA
XXV. CYNTHIA'S FLIGHT
XXVI. TO FRANCE
XXVII. THE AUBERGINE DU SOLEIL
THE TAVERN KNIGHT
CHAPTER I. ON THE MARCH
He whom they called the Tavern Knight laughed an evil laugh--such a
laugh as might fall from the lips of Satan in a sardonic moment.
He sat within the halo of yellow light shed by two tallow candles, whose
sconces were two empty bottles, and contemptuously he eyed the youth
in black, standing with white face and quivering lip in a corner of
the mean chamber. Then he laughed again, and in a hoarse voice, sorely
suggestive of the bottle, he broke into song. He lay back in his chair,
his long, spare legs outstretched, his spurs jingling to the lilt of his
ditty whose burden ran:
On the lip so red of the wench that's sped
His passionate kiss burns, still-O!
For 'tis April time, and of love and wine
Youth's way is to take its fill-O!
Down, down, derry-do!
So his cup he drains and he shakes his reins,
And rides his rake-helly way-O!
She was sweet to woo and most comely, too,
But that was all yesterday-O!
Down, down, derry-do!
The lad started forward with something akin to a shiver.
“Have done,” he cried, in a voice of loathing, “or, if croak you must,
choose a ditty less foul!”
“Eh?” The ruffler shook back the matted hair from his lean, harsh
face, and a pair of eyes that of a sudden seemed ablaze glared at his
companion; then the lids drooped until those eyes became two narrow
slits--catlike and cunning--and again he laughed.
“Gad's life, Master Stewart, you have a temerity that should save
you from grey hairs! What is't to you what ditty my fancy seizes on?
'Swounds, man, for three weary months have I curbed my moods, and worn
my throat dry in praising the Lord; for three months have I been a
living monument of Covenanting zeal and godliness; and now that at last
I have shaken the dust of your beggarly Scotland from my heels, you--the
veriest milksop that ever ran tottering from its mother's lap would
chide me because, yon bottle being done, I sing to keep me from waxing
sad in the contemplation of its emptiness!”
There was scorn unutterable on the lad's face as he turned aside.
“When I joined Middleton's horse and accepted service under you, I held
you to be at least a gentleman,” was his daring rejoinder.
For an instant that dangerous light gleamed again from his companion's
eye. Then, as before, the lids drooped, and, as before, he laughed.
“Gentleman!” he mocked. “On my soul, that's good! And what may you know
of gentlemen, Sir Scot? Think you a gentleman is a Jack Presbyter, or a
droning member of your kirk committee, strutting it like a crow in
the gutter? Gadswounds, boy, when I was your age, and George Villiers
lived--”
“Oh, have done!” broke in the youth impetuously. “Suffer me to leave
you, Sir Crispin, to your bottle, your croaking, and your memories.”
“Aye, go your ways, sir; you'd be sorry company for a dead man--the
sorriest ever my evil star led me into. The door is yonder, and should
you chance to break your saintly neck on the stairs, it is like to be
well for both of us.”
And with that Sir Crispin Galliard lay back in his chair once more, and
took up the thread of his interrupted song
But, heigh-o! she cried, at the Christmas-tide,
That dead she would rather be-O!
Pale and wan she crept out of sight, and wept
'Tis a sorry--
A loud knock that echoed ominously through the mean chamber, fell in
that instant upon the door. And with it came a panting cry of--
“Open, Cris! Open, for the love of God!”
Sir Crispin's ballad broke off short, whilst the lad paused in the act
of quitting the room, and turned to look to him for direction.
“Well, my master,” quoth Galliard, “for what do you wait?”
“To learn your wishes, sir,” was the answer sullenly delivered.
“My wishes! Rat me, there's one without whose wishes brook less waiting!
Open, fool!”
Thus rudely enjoined, the lad lifted the latch and set wide the door,
which opened immediately upon the street. Into the apartment stumbled a
roughly clad man of huge frame. He was breathing hard, and fear was writ
large upon his rugged face. An instant he paused to close the door after
him, then turning to Galliard, who had risen and who stood eyeing him in
astonishment--
“Hide me somewhere, Cris,” he panted--his accent proclaiming his Irish
origin. “My God, hide me, or I'm a dead man this night!”
“'Slife, Hogan! What is toward? Has Cromwell overtaken us?”
“Cromwell, quotha? Would to Heaven 'twere no worse! I've killed a man!”
“If he's dead, why run?”
The Irishman made an impatient gesture.
“A party of Montgomery's foot is on my heels. They've raised the whole
of Penrith over the affair, and if I'm taken, soul of my body, 'twill be
a short shrift they'll give me. The King will serve me as poor Wrycraft
was served two days ago at Kendal. Mother of Mercy!” he broke off,
as his ear caught the clatter of feet and the murmur of voices from
without. “Have you a hole I can creep into?”
“Up those stairs and into my room with you!” said Crispin shortly. “I
will try to head them off. Come, man, stir yourself; they are here.”
Then, as with nimble alacrity Hogan obeyed him and slipped from the
room, he turned to the lad, who had been a silent spectator of what
had passed. From the pocket of his threadbare doublet he drew a pack of
greasy playing cards.
“To table,” he said laconically.
But the boy, comprehending what was required of him, drew back at sight
of those cards as one might shrink from a thing unclean.
“Never!” he began. “I'll not defile--”
“To table, fool!” thundered Crispin, with a vehemence few men could have
withstood. “Is this a time for Presbyterian scruples? To table, and help
a me play this game, or, by the living God, I'll--” Without completing
his threat he leaned forward until Kenneth felt his hot, wine-laden
breath upon his cheek. Cowed by his words, his gesture, and above all,
his glance, the lad drew up a chair, mumbling in explanation--intended
as an excuse to himself for his weakness--that he submitted since a
man's life was at stake.
Opposite him Galliard resumed his seat with a mocking smile that made
him wince. Taking up the cards, he flung a portion of them to the boy,
whilst those he retained he spread fanwise in his hand as if about to
play. Silently Kenneth copied his actions.
Nearer and louder grew the sounds of the approach, lights flashed before
the window, and the two men, feigning to play, sat on and waited.
“Have a care, Master Stewart,” growled Crispin sourly, then in a louder
voice--for his quick eye had caught a glimpse of a face that watched
them from the window--“I play the King of Spades!” he cried, with
meaning look.
A blow was struck upon the door, and with it came the command to “Open
in the King's name!” Softly Sir Crispin rapped out an oath. Then he
rose, and with a last look of warning to Kenneth, he went to open.
And as he had greeted Hogan he now greeted the crowd mainly of
soldiers--that surged about the threshold.
“Sirs, why this ado? Hath the Sultan Oliver descended upon us?”
In one hand he still held his cards, the other he rested upon the edge
of the open door. It was a young ensign who stood forward to answer him.
“One of Lord Middleton's officers hath done a man to death not half an
hour agone; he is an Irishman Captain Hogan by name.”
“Hogan--Hogan?” repeated Crispin, after the manner of one who fumbles in
his memory. “Ah, yes--an Irishman with a grey head and a hot temper. And
he is dead, you say?”
“Nay, he has done the killing.”
“That I can better understand. 'Tis not the first time, I'll be sworn.”
“But it will be the last, Sir Crispin.”
“Like enough. The King is severe since we crossed the Border.” Then in
a brisker tone: “I thank you for bringing me this news,” said he, “and I
regret that in my poor house there be naught I can offer you wherein to
drink His Majesty's health ere you proceed upon your search. Give you
good night, sir.” And by drawing back a pace he signified his wish to
close the door and be quit of them.
“We thought,” faltered the young officer, “that--that perchance you
would assist us by--”
“Assist you!” roared Crispin, with a fine assumption of anger. “Assist
you take a man? Sink me, sir, I would have you know I am a soldier, not
a tipstaff!”
The ensign's cheeks grew crimson under the sting of that veiled insult.
“There are some, Sir Crispin, that have yet another name for you.”
“Like enough--when I am not by,” sneered Crispin. “The world is full of
foul tongues in craven heads. But, sirs, the night air is chill and you
are come inopportunely, for, as you'll perceive, I was at play. Haply
you'll suffer me to close the door.”
“A moment, Sir Crispin. We must search this house. He is believed to
have come this way.”
Crispin yawned. “I will spare you the trouble. You may take it from me
that he could not be here without my knowledge. I have been in this room
these two hours past.”
“Twill not suffice,” returned the officer doggedly. “We must satisfy
ourselves.”
“Satisfy yourselves?” echoed the other, in tones of deep amazement.
“What better satisfaction can I afford you than my word? 'Swounds, sir
jackanapes,” he added, in a roar that sent the lieutenant back a pace
as though he had been struck, “am I to take it that your errand is a
trumped-up business to affront me? First you invite me to turn tipstaff,
then you add your cursed innuendoes of what people say of me, and now
you end by doubting me! You must satisfy yourself!” he thundered, waxing
fiercer at every word. “Linger another moment on that threshold, and
d----n me, sir, I'll give you satisfaction of another flavour! Be off!”
Before that hurricane of passion the ensign recoiled, despite himself.
“I will appeal to General Montgomery,” he threatened.
“Appeal to the devil! Had you come hither with your errand in a seemly
fashion you had found my door thrown wide in welcome, and I had received
you courteously. As it is, sir, the cause for complaint is on my side,
and complain I will. We shall see whether the King permits an old
soldier who has followed the fortunes of his family these eighteen years
to be flouted by a malapert bantam of yesterday's brood!”
The subaltern paused in dismay. Some demur there was in the gathered
crowd. Then the officer fell back a pace, and consulted an elderly
trooper at his elbow. The trooper was of opinion that the fugitive must
have gone farther. Moreover, he could not think, from what Sir Crispin
had said, that it would have been possible for Hogan to have entered the
house. With this, and realizing that much trouble and possible loss of
time must result from Sir Crispin's obstinacy, did they attempt to force
a way into the house, and bethinking himself, also, maybe, how well this
rascally ruffler stood with Lord Middleton, the ensign determined to
withdraw, and to seek elsewhere.
And so he took his leave with a venomous glance, and a parting threat
to bring the matter to the King's ears, upon which Galliard slammed the
door before he had finished.
There was a curious smile on Crispin's face as he walked slowly to the
table, and resumed his seat.
“Master Stewart,” he whispered, as he spread his cards anew, “the comedy
is not yet played out. There is a face glued to the window at this
moment, and I make little doubt that for the next hour or so we shall be
spied upon. That pretty fellow was born to be a thief-taker.”
The boy turned a glance of sour reproof upon his companion. He had not
stirred from his chair while Crispin had been at the door.
“You lied to them,” he said at last.
“Sh! Not so loud, sweet youth,” was the answer that lost nothing of
menace by being subdued. “Tomorrow, if you please, I will account to
you for offending your delicate soul by suggesting a falsehood in your
presence. To-night we have a man's life to save, and that, I think, is
work enough. Come, Master Stewart, we are being watched. Let us resume
our game.”
His eye, fixed in cold command upon the boy, compelled obedience.
And the lad, more out of awe of that glance than out of any desire to
contribute to the saving of Hogan, mutely consented to keep up this
pretence. But in his soul he rebelled. He had been reared in an
atmosphere of honourable and religious bigotry. Hogan was to him a
coarse ruffler; an evil man of the sword; such a man as he abhorred and
accounted a disgrace to any army--particularly to an army launched upon
England under the auspices of the Solemn League and Covenant.
Hogan had been guilty of an act of brutality; he had killed a man; and
Kenneth deemed himself little better, since he assisted in harbouring
instead of discovering him, as he held to be his duty. But 'neath the
suasion of Galliard's inexorable eye he sat limp and docile, vowing
to himself that on the morrow he would lay the matter before Lord
Middleton, and thus not only endeavour to make amends for his present
guilty silence, but rid himself also of the companionship of this
ruffianly Sir Crispin, to whom no doubt a hempen justice would be meted.
Meanwhile, he sat on and left his companion's occasional sallies
unanswered. In the street men stirred and lanthorns gleamed fitfully,
whilst ever and anon a face surmounted by a morion would be pressed
against the leaded panes of the window.
Thus an hour wore itself out during which poor Hogan sat above, alone
with his anxiety and unsavoury thoughts.