When the Tavern Knight left the gates of Marleigh Park behind him on
that wild October night, he drove deep the rowels of his spurs, and set
his horse at a perilous gallop along the road to Norwich. The action was
of instinct rather than of thought. In the turbulent sea of his mind,
one clear current there was, and one only--the knowledge that he was
bound for London for news of this son of his whom Joseph told him lived.
He paused not even to speculate what manner of man his child was grown,
nor yet what walk of life he had been reared to tread. He lived: he was
somewhere in the world; that for the time sufficed him. The Ashburns
had not, it seemed, destroyed quite everything that made his life worth
enduring--the life that so often and so wantonly he had exposed.
His son lived, and in London he should have news of him. To London then
must he get himself with all dispatch, and he swore to take no rest
until he reached it. And with that firm resolve to urge him, he ploughed
his horse's flanks, and sped on through the night. The rain beat in
his face, yet he scarce remarked it, as again more by instinct than by
reason--he buried his face to the eyes in the folds of his cloak.
Later the rain ceased, and clearer grew the line of light betwixt the
hedgerows, by which his horse had steered its desperate career. Fitfully
a crescent moon peered out from among the wind-driven clouds. The poor
ruffler was fallen into meditation, and noted not that his nag did no
more than amble. He roused himself of a sudden when half-way down
a gentle slope some five miles from Norwich, and out of temper at
discovering the sluggishness of the pace, he again gave the horse a
taste of the spurs. The action was fatal. The incline was become a bed
of sodden clay, and he had not noticed with what misgivings his horse
pursued the treacherous footing. The sting of the spur made the animal
bound forward, and the next instant a raucous oath broke from Crispin
as the nag floundered and dropped on its knees. Like a stone from a
catapult Galliard flew over its head and rolled down the few remaining
yards of the slope into a very lake of slimy water at the bottom.
Down this same hill, some twenty minutes later, came Kenneth Stewart
with infinite precaution. He was in haste--a haste more desperate
far than even Crispin's. But his character held none of Galliard's
recklessness, nor were his wits fogged by such news as Crispin had heard
that night. He realized that to be swift he must be cautious in his
night-riding. And so, carefully he came, with a firm hand on the reins,
yet leaving it to his horse to find safe footing.
He had reached the level ground in safety, and was about to put his nag
to a smarter pace, when of a sudden from the darkness of the hedge he
was hailed by a harsh, metallic voice, the sound of which sent a tremor
through him.
“Sir, you are choicely met, whoever you may be. I have suffered a
mischance down that cursed hill, and my horse has gone lame.”
Kenneth kept his cloak over his mouth, trusting that the muffling would
sufficiently disguise his accents as he made answer.
“I am in haste, my master. What is your will?”
“Why, marry, so am I in haste. My will is your horse, sir. Oh, I'm no
robber. I'll pay you for it, and handsomely. But have it I must. 'Twill
be no great discomfort for you to walk to Norwich. You may do it in an
hour.”
“My horse, sir, is not for sale,” was Kenneth's brief answer. “Give you
good night.”
“Hold, man! Blood and hell, stop! If you'll not sell the worthless beast
to serve a gentleman, I'll shoot it under you. Make your choice.”
Kenneth caught the gleam of a pistol-barrel pointed at him from the
hedge, and he shivered. What was he to do? Every instant was precious to
him. As in a flash it came to him that perchance Sir Crispin also rode
to London, and that it was expected of him to arrive there first if he
were to be in time. Swiftly he weighed the odds in his mind, and took
the determination to dash past Sir Crispin, risking his aim and trusting
to the dark to befriend him.
But even as he determined thus, what moon there was became unveiled, and
the light of it fell upon his face, which was turned towards Galliard.
An exclamation of surprise escaped Sir Crispin.
“'Slife, Master Stewart, I knew not your voice. Whither do you ride?”
“What is it to you? Have you not wrought enough of evil for me? Am I
never to be rid of you? Castle Marleigh,” he added, with well-feigned
anger, “has closed its doors upon me. What does it signify to you
whither I ride? Suffer me leastways to pass unmolested, and to leave
you.”
Kenneth's passionate reproaches cut Galliard keenly. He held himself at
that moment a very knave for having dragged this boy into his work of
vengeance, and thereby cast a blight upon his life. He sought for words
wherein to give expression to something of what he felt, then realizing
how futile and effete all words must prove, he waved his hand in the
direction of the road.
“Go, Master Stewart,” he muttered. “Your way is clear.”
And Kenneth, waiting for no second invitation, rode on and left him. He
rode with gratitude in his heart to the Providence that had caused him
so easily to overcome an obstacle that at first he had held impassable.
Stronger grew in his mind the conviction that to fulfil the mission
Joseph required of him, he must reach London before Sir Crispin. The
knowledge that he was ahead of him, and that he must derive an ample
start from Galliard's mishap, warmed him like wine.
His mind thus relieved from its weight of anxiety, he little recked
fatigue, and such excellent use did he make of his horse that he reached
Newmarket on it an hour before the morrow's moon.
An hour he rested there, and broke his fast. Then on a fresh horse--a
powerful and willing animal he set out once more.
By half-past two he was at Newport. But so hard had he ridden that man
and beast alike were in a lather of sweat, and whilst he himself felt
sick and tired, the horse was utterly unfit to bear him farther. For
half an hour he rested there, and made a meal whose chief constituent
was brandy. Then on a third horse he started upon the last stage of his
journey.
The wind was damp and penetrating; the roads veritable morasses of mud,
and overhead gloomy banks of dark, grey clouds moved sluggishly, the
light that was filtered through them giving the landscape a bleak and
dreary aspect. In his jaded condition Kenneth soon became a prey to the
depression of it. His lightness of heart of some dozen hours ago was
now all gone, and not even the knowledge that his mission was well-nigh
accomplished sufficed to cheer him. To add to his discomfort a fine
rain set in towards four o'clock, and when a couple of hours later he
clattered along the road cut through a wooded slope in the direction of
Waltham, he was become a very limp and lifeless individual.
He noticed not the horsemen moving cautiously among the closely-set
trees on either side of the road. It was growing prematurely dark, and
objects were none too distinct. And thus it befell that when from the
reverie of dejection into which he had fallen he was suddenly aroused by
the thud of hoofs, he looked up to find two mounted men barring the road
some ten yards in front of him. Their attitude was unmistakable, and it
crossed poor Kenneth's mind that he was beset by robbers. But a second
glance showed him their red cloaks and military steel caps, and he knew
them for soldiers of the Commonwealth.
Hearing the beat of hoofs behind him, he looked over his shoulder to see
four other troopers closing rapidly down upon him. Clearly he was the
object of their attention. He had been a fool not to have perceived this
earlier, and his heart misgave him, for all that had he paused to think
he must have realized that he had naught to fear, and that in this some
mistake must lie.
“Halt!” thundered the deep voice of the sergeant, who, with a trooper,
held the road in front.
Kenneth drew up within a yard of them, conscious that the man's dark
eyes were scanning him sharply from beneath his morion.
“Who are you, sir?” the bass voice demanded.
Alas for the vanity of poor human mites! Even Kenneth, who never yet had
achieved aught for the cause he served, grew of a sudden chill to think
that perchance this sergeant might recognize his name for one that he
had heard before associated with deeds performed on the King's behalf.
For a second he hesitated; then:
“Blount,” he stammered, “Jasper Blount.”
He little thought how that fruit of his vanity was to prove his undoing
thereafter.
“Verily,” sneered the sergeant, “it almost seemed you had forgotten it.”
And from that sneer Kenneth gathered with fresh dread that the fellow
mistrusted him.
“Whence are you, Master Blount?”
Again Kenneth hesitated. Then recalling Ashburn's high favour with the
Parliament, and seeing that it could but advance his cause to state the
true sum of his journey:
“From Castle Marleigh,” he replied.
“Verily, sir, you seem yet in some doubt. Whither do you go?”
“To London.”
“On what errand?” The sergeant's questions fell swift as sword-strokes.
“With letters for Colonel Pride.”
The reply, delivered more boldly than Kenneth had spoken hitherto, was
not without its effect.
“From whom are these letters?”
“From Mr. Joseph Ashburn, of Castle Marleigh.”
“Produce them.”
With trembling fingers Kenneth complied. This the sergeant observed as
he took the package.
“What ails you, man?” quoth he.
“Naught, sir 'tis the cold.”
The sergeant scanned the package and its seal. In a measure it was a
passport, and he was forced to the conclusion that this man was indeed
the messenger he represented himself. Certainly he had not the air nor
the bearing of him for whom they waited, nor did the sergeant think that
their quarry would have armed himself with a dummy package against such
a strait. And yet the sergeant was not master after all, and did he let
this fellow pursue his journey, he might reap trouble for it hereafter;
whilst likewise if he detained him, Colonel Pride, he knew, was not an
over-patient man. He was still debating what course to take, and had
turned to his companion with the muttered question: “What think you,
Peter?” when by his precipitancy Kenneth ruined his slender chance of
being permitted to depart.
“I pray you, sir, now that you know my errand, suffer me to pass on.”
There was an eager tremor in his voice that the sergeant mistook for
fear. He noted it, and remembering the boy's hesitancy in answering his
earlier questions, he decided upon his course of action.
“We shall not delay your journey, sir,” he answered, eyeing Kenneth
sharply, “and as your way must lie through Waltham, I will but ask you
to suffer us to ride with you thus far, so that there you may answer any
questions our captain may have to ask ere you proceed.”
“But, sir--”
“No more, master courier,” snarled the sergeant. Then, beckoning a
trooper to his side, he whispered an order in his ear.
As the man withdrew they wheeled their horses, and at a sharp word
of command Kenneth rode on towards Waltham between the sergeant and a
trooper.