For a week after the coming of the King to Worcester, Crispin's
relations with Kenneth steadily improved. By an evil chance, however,
there befell on the eve of the battle that which renewed with heightened
intensity the enmity which the lad had fostered for him, but which
lately he had almost overcome.
The scene of this happening--leastways of that which led to it--was The
Mitre Inn, in the High Street of Worcester.
In the common-room one day sat as merry a company of carousers as ever
gladdened the soul of an old tantivy boy. Youthful ensigns of
Lesley's Scottish horse--caring never a fig for the Solemn League and
Covenant--rubbed shoulders with beribboned Cavaliers of Lord Talbot's
company; gay young lairds of Pitscottie's Highlanders, unmindful of the
Kirk's harsh commandments of sobriety, sat cheek by jowl with rakehelly
officers of Dalzell's Brigade, and pledged the King in many a stoup of
canary and many a can of stout March ale.
On every hand spirits ran high and laughter filled the chamber, the
mirth of some having its source in a neighbour's quip, that of others
having no source at all save in the wine they had taken.
At one table sat a gentleman of the name of Faversham, who had ridden on
the previous night in that ill-fated camisado that should have
resulted in the capture of Cromwell at Spetchley, but which, owing to a
betrayal--when was a Stuart not betrayed and sold?--miscarried. He was
relating to the group about him the details of that disaster.
“Oddslife, gentlemen,” he was exclaiming, “I tell you that, but for that
roaring dog, Sir Crispin Galliard, the whole of Middleton's regiment had
been cut to pieces. There we stood on Red Hill, trapped as ever fish
in a net, with the whole of Lilburne's men rising out of the ground to
enclose and destroy us. A living wall of steel it was, and on every hand
the call to surrender. There was dismay in my heart, as I'll swear there
was dismay in the heart of every man of us, and I make little doubt,
gentlemen, that with but scant pressing we had thrown down our arms, so
disheartened were we by that ambush. Then of a sudden there arose above
the clatter of steel and Puritan cries, a loud, clear, defiant shout of
'Hey for Cavaliers!'”
“I turned, and there in his stirrups stood that madman Galliard, waving
his sword and holding his company together with the power of his will,
his courage, and his voice. The sight of him was like wine to our blood.
'Into them, gentlemen; follow me!' he roared. And then, with a hurricane
of oaths, he hurled his company against the pike-men. The blow was
irresistible, and above the din of it came that voice of his again: 'Up,
Cavaliers! Slash the cuckolds to ribbons, gentlemen!' The cropears gave
way, and like a river that has burst its dam, we poured through the
opening in their ranks and headed back for Worcester.”
There was a roar of voices as Faversham ended, and around that table
“The Tavern Knight” was for some minutes the only toast.
Meanwhile half a dozen merry-makers at a table hard by, having drunk
themselves out of all sense of fitness, were occupied in baiting a
pale-faced lad, sombrely attired, who seemed sadly out of place in that
wild company--indeed, he had been better advised to have avoided it.
The matter had been set afoot by a pleasantry of Ensign Tyler's, of
Massey's dragoons, with a playful allusion to a letter in a feminine
hand which Kenneth had let fall, and which Tyler had restored to him.
Quip had followed quip until in their jests they transcended all bounds.
Livid with passion and unable to endure more, Kenneth had sprung up.
“Damnation!” he blazed, bringing his clenched hand down upon the table.
“One more of your foul jests and he that utters it shall answer to me!”
The suddenness of his action and the fierceness of his tone and
gesture--a fierceness so grotesquely ill-attuned to his slender frame
and clerkly attire left the company for a moment speechless with
amazement. Then a mighty burst of laughter greeted him, above which
sounded the shrill voice of Tyler, who held his sides, and down whose
crimson cheeks two tears of mirth were trickling.
“Oh, fie, fie, good Master Stewart!” he gasped. “What think you would
the reverend elders say to this bellicose attitude and this profane
tongue of yours?”
“And what think you would the King say to this drunken poltroonery of
yours?” was the hot unguarded answer. “Poltroonery, I say,” he repeated,
embracing the whole company in his glance.
The laughter died down as Kenneth's insult penetrated their befuddled
minds. An instant's lull there was, like the lull in nature that
precedes a clap of thunder. Then, as with one accord, a dozen of them
bore down upon him.
It was a vile thing they did, perhaps; but then they had drunk deep, and
Kenneth Stewart counted no friend amongst them. In an instant they had
him, kicking and biting, on the floor; his doublet was torn rudely open,
and from his breast Tyler plucked the letter whose existence had led to
this shameless scene.
But ere he could so much as unfold it, a voice rang harsh and
imperative:
“Hold!”
Pausing, they turned to confront a tall, gaunt man in a leather jerkin
and a broad hat decked by goose-quill, who came slowly forward.
“The Tavern Knight,” cried one, and the shout of “A rouse for the hero
of Red Hill!” was taken up on every hand. For despite his sour visage
and ungracious ways there was not a roysterer in the Royal army to whom
he was not dear.
But as he now advanced, the coldness of his bearing and the forbidding
set of his face froze them into silence.
“Give me that letter,” he demanded sternly of Tyler.
Taken aback, Tyler hesitated for a second, whilst Crispin waited with
hand outstretched. Vainly did he look round for sign or word of help or
counsel. None was afforded him by his fellow-revellers, who one and all
hung back in silence.
Seeing himself thus unsupported, and far from wishing to try conclusions
with Galliard, Tyler with an ill grace surrendered the paper; and, with
a pleasant bow and a word of thanks, delivered with never so slight
a saturnine smile, Crispin turned on his heel and left the tavern as
abruptly as he had entered it.
The din it was that had attracted him as he passed by on his way to the
Episcopal Palace where a part of his company was on guard duty. Thither
he now pursued his way, bearing with him the letter which so opportunely
he had become possessed of, and which he hoped might throw further light
upon Kenneth's relations with the Ashburns.
But as he reached the palace there was a quick step behind him, and a
hand fell upon his arm. He turned.
“Ah, 'tis you, Kenneth,” he muttered, and would have passed on, but the
boy's hand took him by the sleeve.
“Sir Crispin,” said he, “I came to thank you.”
“I have done nothing to deserve your thanks. Give you good evening.” And
he made shift to mount the steps when again Kenneth detained him.
“You are forgetting the letter, Sir Crispin,” he ventured, and he held
out his hand to receive it.
Galliard saw the gesture, and for a moment it crossed his mind in
self-reproach that the part he chose to play was that of a bully. A
second he hesitated. Should he surrender the letter unread, and fight on
without the aid of the information it might bring him? Then the thought
of Ashburn and of his own deep wrongs that cried out for vengeance,
overcame and stifled the generous impulse. His manner grew yet more
frozen as he made answer:
“There has been too much ado about this letter to warrant my so lightly
parting with it. First I will satisfy myself that I have been no
unconscious abettor of treason. You shall have your letter tomorrow,
Master Stewart.”
“Treason!” echoed Kenneth. And before that cold rebuff of Crispin's his
mood changed from conciliatory to resentful--resentful towards the fates
that made him this man's debtor.
“I assure you, on my honour,” said he, mastering his feelings, “that
this is but a letter from the lady I hope to make my wife. Assuredly,
sir, you will not now insist upon reading it.”
“Assuredly I shall.”
“But, sir--”
“Master Stewart, I am resolved, and were you to talk from now till
doomsday, you would not turn me from my purpose. So good night to you.”
“Sir Crispin,” cried the boy, his voice quavering with passion, “while I
live you shall not read that letter!”
“Hoity-toity, sir! What words! What heroics! And yet you would have me
believe this paper innocent?”
“As innocent as the hand that penned it, and if I so oppose your reading
it, it is because thus much I owe her. Believe me, sir,” he added, his
accents returning to a beseeching key, “when again I swear that it is no
more than such a letter any maid may write her lover. I thought that you
had understood all this when you rescued me from those bullies at
The Mitre. I thought that what you did was a noble and generous deed.
Instead--” The lad paused.
“Continue, sir,” Galliard requested coldly. “Instead?”
“There can be no instead, Sir Crispin. You will not mar so good an
action now. You will give me my letter, will you not?”
Callous though he was, Crispin winced. The breeding of earlier days--so
sadly warped, alas!--cried out within him against the lie that he
was acting by pretending to suspect treason in that woman's pothooks.
Instincts of gentility and generosity long dead took life again,
resuscitated by that call of conscience. He was conquered.
“There, take your letter, boy, and plague me no more,” he growled, as he
held it out to Kenneth. And without waiting for reply or acknowledgment,
he turned on his heel, and entered the palace. But he had yielded
overlate to leave a good impression and, as Kenneth turned away, it was
with a curse upon Galliard, for whom his detestation seemed to increase
at every step.