It was with a countenance sadly dejected that Crispin returned to his
chamber and sate himself wearily upon the bed. With elbows on his knees
and chin in his palms he stared straight before him, the usual steely
brightness of his grey eyes dulled by the despondency that sat upon his
face and drew deep furrows down his fine brow.
With a sigh he rose at last and idly fingered the papers he had taken
from the pocket of Kenneth's coat. As he did so his glance was arrested
by the signature at the foot of one. “Gregory Ashburn” was the name he
read.
Ashen grew his cheeks as his eyes fastened upon that name, whilst the
hand, to which no peril ever brought a tremor, shook now like an aspen.
Feverishly he spread the letter on his knee, and with a glance, from
dull that it had been, grown of a sudden fierce and cruel, he read the
contents.
DEAR KENNETH,
Again I write in the hope that I may prevail upon you to quit Scotland
and your attachment to a king, whose fortunes prosper not, nor can
prosper. Cynthia is pining, and if you tarry longer from Castle Marleigh
she must perforce think you but a laggard lover. Than this I have no
more powerful argument wherewith to draw you from Perth to Sheringham,
but this I think should prevail where others have failed me. We await
you then, and whilst we wait we daily drink your health. Cynthia
commends herself to your memory as doth my brother, and soon we hope to
welcome you at Castle Marleigh. Believe, my dear Kenneth, that whilst I
am, I am yours in affection.
GREGORY ASHBURN
Twice Crispin read the letter through. Then with set teeth and straining
eyes he sat lost in thought.
Here indeed was a strange chance! This boy whom he had met at Perth,
and enrolled in his company, was a friend of Ashburn's--the lover of
Cynthia. Who might this Cynthia be?
Long and deep were his ponderings upon the unfathomable ways of
Fate--for Fate he now believed was here at work to help him, revealing
herself by means of this sign even at the very moment when he decried
his luck. In memory he reviewed his meeting with the lad in the yard
of Perth Castle a fortnight ago. Something in the boy's bearing, in his
air, had caught Crispin's eye. He had looked him over, then approached,
and bluntly asked his name and on what business he was come there. The
youth had answered him civilly enough that he was Kenneth Stewart
of Bailienochy, and that he was come to offer his sword to the King.
Thereupon he had interested himself in the lad's behalf and had gained
him a lieutenancy in his own company. Why he was attracted to a youth
on whom never before had he set eyes was a matter that puzzled him not
a little. Now he held, he thought, the explanation of it. It was the way
of Fate.
This boy was sent into his life by a Heaven that at last showed
compassion for the deep wrongs he had suffered; sent him as a key
wherewith, should the need occur, to open him the gates of Castle
Marleigh.
In long strides he paced the chamber, turning the matter over in his
mind. Aye, he would use the lad should the need arise. Why scruple? Had
he ever received aught but disdain and scorn at the hands of Kenneth.
Day was breaking ere he sought his bed, and already the sun was up when
at length he fell into a troubled sleep, vowing that he would mend his
wild ways and seek to gain the boy's favour against the time when he
might have need of him.
When later he restored the papers to Kenneth, explaining to what use he
had put the coat, he refrained from questioning him concerning Gregory
Ashburn. The docility of his mood on that occasion came as a surprise to
Kenneth, who set it down to Sir Crispin's desire to conciliate him into
silence touching the harbouring of Hogan. In that same connexion Crispin
showed him calmly and clearly that he could not now inform without
involving himself to an equally dangerous extent. And partly through
the fear of this, partly won over by Crispin's persuasions, the lad
determined to hold his peace.
Nor had he cause to regret it thereafter, for throughout that tedious
march he found his roystering companion singularly meek and kindly.
Indeed he seemed a different man. His old swagger and roaring bluster
disappeared; he drank less, diced less, blasphemed less, and stormed
less than in the old days before the halt at Penrith; but rode, a
silent, thoughtful figure, so self-contained and of so godly a mien as
would have rejoiced the heart of the sourest Puritan. The wild tantivy
boy had vanished, and the sobriquet of “Tavern Knight” was fast becoming
a misnomer.
Kenneth felt drawn more towards him, deeming him a penitent that had
seen at last the error of his ways. And thus things prevailed until the
almost triumphal entry into the city of Worcester on the twenty-third of
August.