see, sir, I've my orders, and I maun abide by them. 'Pit thae letters,'
my maister says, 'intil the hand of him ye ken o' and let naebody else
get a glisk o' them.'"
"Then it is my duty to take them by force," said Alastair, showing the
hilt of his sword and the butt of a pistol under his coat.
Edom's face cleared.
"That is a wiser-like way o' speakin'. If ye compel me I maun e'en
submit, for ye're a gentleman wi' a sword and I'm a landward body wi'
nocht but a hazel wand. It's no that I mistrust your honour, but we
maun a' preserve the decencies."
He unbuttoned his coat, foraged in the recesses of his person, and from
some innermost receptacle extracted a packet tied with a dozen folds of
cobbler's twine. There was no seal to break, and Alastair slit the
knots with his sword. Within was a bunch of papers of the same type as
those he had received from Brother Gilly, and burned in the fire of the
Dog and Gun. These he put in his pocket for further study. "I must read
them carefully, for they contain that which must go straight to the
Prince's ear," he told the perplexed messenger.
But there was a further missive, which seemed to be a short personal
note from Mr Kyd to the recipient of the papers.
"_Dear Achilles_," it ran. "_Affairs march smoothly and the tide SETS
well to bring you to Troy town, where presently I design to crack a
bottle and exchange tales. The Lady Briseis purposes to join you and
will not be dissuaded by her kinsman. A friendly word:_ _mix caution
with your ardour her-ward, for she has got a political enthusiasm and
is devilish strong-headed. The news of the Marches and the West will
travel to you with all expedition, but I must linger behind to
encourage my correspondents. Menelaus greets you--a Menelaus that never
owned a Helen._"
The full sense of the document did not at first reach Alastair's brain.
But he caught the word "_Achilles_," and remembered a girl's whispered
confidence the night before. A second phrase arrested
him--"Briseis"--he remembered enough of Father Dominic's teaching to
identify the reference. This Norreys, this husband of the russet lady,
was far deeper in the secrets of the Cause than he had dreamed, if he
were thus made the channel of vital intelligence. He was bidden act
cautiously towards his new wife, and Mr Kyd, who had heard Johnson's
accusations at Cornbury and said nothing, had all the time been in
league with him. A sudden sense of a vast insecurity overcame the young
man. The ground he trod on seemed shifting sand, and nowhere was there
a firm and abiding landmark. And the girl too was walking in dark ways,
and when she thought that she tripped over marble and cedar was in
truth skimming the crust of quicksands. He grew hot with anger.
"Do you know the man to whom these are addressed?" he asked with stern
brows.
Edom grinned.
"I ken how to find him. I'm to speir in certain quarters for ane
Achilles, and I mind eneuch o' what the Lauder dominie lickit intil me
to ken that Achilles was a braw sodger."
"You do not know his name? You never saw him?"
The man shook his head. "I wad like the letters back, sir," he
volunteered warily, for he was intimidated by Alastair's dark forehead.
The latter handed back the _Achilles_ letter, and began to read more
carefully the other papers. Suddenly he raised his head and listened.
The forest hitherto had been still with the strange dead quiet of a
November noon. But now the noise of hounds was heard again, not half a
mile off, as if they were hunting a line in the brushwood. He awoke
with a start to the fact of his danger. What better sport for the
patrons of the Flambury Hunt than to ride down a Jacobite horse-thief?
A vague fury possessed him against that foolish squire with the
cherubic face and the vacant blue eye.
"The hunt is cried after me," he told Edom, "and I take it you too have
no desire to advertise your whereabouts. For God's sake let's get out
of this place. Where does this road lead?"
Edom's answer was drowned in a hubbub of hounds which seemed to be
approaching down the ride from the east. Alastair led the way from the
hut up a steepish hill, sparsely wooded with scrub oak, in the hope of
finding a view-point. Unfortunately at the top the thicket was densest,
so the young man swung himself into a tree and as quickly as
riding-boots would permit sought a coign of vantage in its upper
branches. There he had the prospect he wanted--a great circle of
rolling country, most of it woodland, but patched with large heaths
where gorse-fires were smouldering. The piece of forest in which he sat
stretched far to east and west, but to the north was replaced in less
than a mile by pasture and small enclosures. As he looked he saw
various things to disquiet him. The grassy road they had left was
visible for half a mile, and down it came horsemen, while at the other
end there seemed to be a picket placed. Worse still, to the north,
which was the way of escape he had thought of, there were mounted men
at intervals along the fringe of the trees. The hounds could be heard
drawing near in the scrub east of the hut, and men's voices accompanied
them. He remembered that they would find the hut door open, see the
crumbs of Edom's bread and cheese, and no doubt discover the track
which led up the hill.
He scrambled to the ground, his heart filled with forebodings and a
deep disgust. He, who should long ago have been in the battle-field
among the leaders, was befogged in this remote country-side, pursued by
yokels, clogged and hampered at every step, and yet with the most
desperate urgency of haste to goad him forward. His pride was outraged
by such squalid ill-fortune. He must get his head from the net which
was entangling and choking him. But for the moment there was nothing
for it but to cower like a hare, and somewhere in the deep scrub find a
hiding-place. Happily a fox-hound was not a bloodhound.
Down the other side of the hill they went, Edom panting heavily and
slipping every second yard. At the bottom they came on another road
running parallel with the first, and were about to cross it when a
sound from in front gave them pause. There were men there, keepers
perhaps, beating the undergrowth and whistling. The two turned to the
west and ran down the track, keeping as far as possible in the shadow
of the adjacent coppice. A fine rain was beginning, which brought with
it a mist that lowered the range of vision to a few hundred yards. In
that lay Alastair's one hope. Let the weather thicken and he would
undertake to elude all the foresters and fox-hunters in England. He
cursed the unfamiliar land, which had no hills where fleetness of foot
availed or crags where a bold man could laugh at pursuit.
The place seemed terribly full of folk, as if whole parishes had
emptied their population to beat the covers. Now he realised that the
mist had its drawbacks as well as its merits, for he might stumble
suddenly into a posse of searchers, and, though he himself might
escape, the clumsier Edom would be taken. He bade the latter choose a
line of his own and save himself, as he was not the object of the hunt,
and owed his chief danger to his company, but this the man steadfastly
refused to do. He ploughed stubbornly along in Alastair's wake,
wheezing like a bellows.
Then the noises seemed to die down, and the two continued in a dripping
quiet. It was idle to think of leaving the forest, and the best that
could be done was to find a hiding-place when they were certain that
the pursuit was outdistanced. But this meant delay, and these slow
rustics might keep up their watch for a week. . . .
Presently they came to a cross-roads, where a broader path cut their
ride, and in the centre stood an old rotting stake, where long ago some
outlaw may have swung. They halted, for Edom had his breath to get. He
flung himself on the ground, and at that moment Alastair caught sight
of something tied to the post. Going nearer, he saw that it was a bunch
of broom.
Had his wits not been sharpened by danger and disgust it might have had
no meaning for him. But, as it was, Midwinter's parting words on Otmoor
came back to him, and with it the catch which he had almost forgotten.
As Edom lay panting, he shaped his lips to whistle the air. In the
quiet the tune rang out clear and shrill, and as he finished there was
silence again. Then the bushes parted, and a man came out.
He was a charcoal-burner, with a face like an Ethiopian, and red sore
eyes curiously ringed about with clean white skin.
"Ye have the tune, master," he said. "What be your commands for the
Spoonbills? Folks be huntin' these woods, and maybe it's you as they're
seekin'."
"The place is surrounded," said Alastair, "and they are beating the
covers between the rides. Get us out, or show us how we can be hid."
The man did not hesitate. "Escape's better'n hidin'," he said. "Follow
me, sirs, and I'll do my best for ye."
He led them at a great pace some two hundred yards into a tiny dell.
There a glaze hung in the dull air from a charcoal-oven, which glowed
under a mound of sods. Neat piles of oak and birch billets stood
around, and the shafts of a cart stuck up out of the long bracken. On
one side an outcrop of rock made a fine wind-shelter, and, pushing
aside the creepers which veiled it, the charcoal-burner revealed a
small cave.
"Off with your clothes, sirs," he said. "They'll be safe enough in that
hidy-hole till I gets a chance to return 'em. Them rags is my mates',
and in this pickle are better'n fine silks."
Two filthy old smocks were unearthed, and two pairs of wooden-soled
clogs which replaced their boots. The change was effected swiftly under
the constant urging of the charcoal-burner, who kept his ears cocked
and his head extended like a dog. In five minutes Alastair was
outwardly a figure differing only in complexion from the master of the
dingle. Then the latter set to work, and with a handful of hot charcoal
smeared hands and faces, rubbing the dirt into the eye-sockets so that
the eyes smarted and watered. Hats and cravats were left in the cave,
and Alastair's trim hair was roughly clubbed, and dusted with soot for
powder. There was no looking-glass to show him the result, but the
charcoal-burner seemed satisfied. The transformation was simpler for
Edom, who soon to Alastair's eyes looked as if he had done nothing all
his days but tend a smoky furnace.
"I'll do the talking if we happen to meet inquiring folk," the
charcoal-burner admonished them. "Look sullen and keep your eyes on the
ground, and spit--above all, spit. Ours is a dry trade."
He led them back to the main ride, and then boldly along the road which
pointed north. The forest had woke up, and there were sounds of life on
every side. The hounds had come out of covert and were being coaxed in
again by a vociferous huntsman. Echoes of "Sweetlip," "Rover,"
"Trueman," mingled with sundry oaths, came gustily down the wind.
Someone far off blew a horn incessantly, and in a near thicket there
was a clamour of voices like those of beaters after roebuck. The three
men tramped stolidly along, the two novices imitating as best they
could the angular gait, as of one who rarely stretched his legs, and
the blindish carriage of the charcoal-burner.
A knot of riders swept down on them. Alastair ventured to lift his eyes
for one second, and saw the scarlet and plum colour of Squire
Thicknesse and noted the grey's hocks. The legs finicking and waltzing
near them he thought belonged to Moonbeam, and was glad that the horse
had been duly caught and restored. The Squire asked a question of the
charcoal-burner and was answered in a dialect of gutturals. Off surged
the riders, and presently the three were at the edge of the trees where
a forester's cottage smoked in the rain. Beyond, wrapped in a white
mist, stretched ploughland and pasture.
Alastair saw that his tree-top survey had been right. This edge of the
wood was all picketed, and as the three emerged a keeper in buckskin
breeches came towards them, and a man on horseback turned at his cry
and cantered back.
The keeper did not waste time on them, once he had a near view.
"Yah!" he said, "it's them salvages o' coalies. They ain't got eyes to
obsarve nothin', pore souls! 'Ere, Billy," he cried, "seen any strange
gen'elmen a-wanderin' the woods this morning?"
The charcoal-burner stopped, and the two others formed up sullenly
behind him.
"There wor a fallow-buck a routin' round my foorness," he grumbled in a
voice as thick as clay. "Happen it come to some 'urt, don't blame me,
gossip. Likewise there's a badger as is makin' an earth where my
birch-faggots should lie. That's all the strange gen'elmen I seen this
marnin', barrin' a pack o' red-coats a-gallopin' 'orses and blowin'
'orns."
The rider had now arrived and was looking curiously at the three. The
keeper in corduroy breeches turned laughing to him. "Them coalies is
pure salvages, Mr Gervase, sir. Brocks and bucks, indeed, when I'm
inquirin' for gen'elmen. Gawd A'mighty made their 'eads as weak as
their eyes."
What answer the rider gave is not known, for the charcoal-burners had
already moved forward. They crossed a piece of plough and reached a
shallow vale seamed by a narrow stagnant brook. Here they were in
shelter, and to Alastair's surprise their leader began to run. He took
them at a good pace up the water till it was crossed by a high-road,
then along a by-path, past a farm-steading, to a strip of woodland,
which presently opened out into a wide heath. Here in deference to
Edom's heaving chest he slackened pace. The rain was changing from a
drizzle to a heavy downpour and the faces of the two amateurs were
becoming a ghastly piebald with the lashing of the weather.
The charcoal-burner turned suddenly to Alastair and spoke in a voice
which had no trace of dialect.
"You have escaped one danger, sir. I do not know who you may be or what
your desires are, but I am bound to serve you as far as it may lie in
my power. Do you wish me to take you to my master?"
"I could answer that better, if I knew who he was."
"We do not speak his name at large, but in a month's time the festival
of his name-day will return."
Alastair nodded. The thought of Midwinter came suddenly to him with an
immense comfort. He, if anyone could, would help him out of this
miasmic jungle in which his feet were entangled and set him again upon
the highway. His head was still confused with the puzzle of Kyd's
behaviour.--Edom's errand, the exact part played by Sir John Norreys,
above all the presence of a subtle treason. He remembered the deep eyes
and the wise brow of the fiddler of Otmoor, and had he not that very
day seen a proof of his power?
The heath billowed and sank into ridges and troughs, waterless and
furze-clad, and in one of the latter they came suddenly upon a house.
It was a small place, built with its back to a steep ridge all
overgrown with blackberries and heather--two stories high, and flanked
by low thatched outbuildings, and a pretence at a walled garden. On the
turf before the door, beside an ancient well, a sign on a pole
proclaimed it the inn of The Merry Woman, but suns and frosts had long
since obliterated all trace of the rejoicing lady, though below it and
more freshly painted was something which might have resembled a human
eye.
The three men lounged into the kitchen, which was an appanage to the
main building, and called for ale. It was brought by a little old woman
in a mutch, who to Alastair's surprise curtseyed to the grimy figure of
the charcoal-burner.
"He's alone, sir," she said, "and your own room's waiting if you're
ready for it."
"Will you go up to him?" the charcoal-burner asked, and Alastair
followed the old woman. She led the way up a narrow staircase with a
neat sheep-skin rug on each tread, to a tiny corridor from which two
rooms opened. The one on the left they entered and found an empty
bedroom, cleanly and plainly furnished. A door in the wall at the other
end, concealed by a hanging cupboard, gave access to a pitch-dark
passage. The woman took Alastair's hand and led him a yard or two till
she found a door-handle. It opened and showed a large chamber with
daylight coming through windows apparently half cloaked with creepers.
Alastair realised that the room had been hollowed out of the steep
behind the house, and that the windows opened in the briars and heath
of the face.
A fire was burning and a man sat beside it reading in a book. He was
the fiddler of Otmoor, and in the same garb, save that he had discarded
his coat and wore instead a long _robe de chambre_. A keen eye scanned
the visitor, and then followed a smile and an outstretched hand.
"Welcome, Alastair Maclean," he said. "I heard of you in these parts
and hoped for a meeting."
"From whom?"
"One whom you call the Spainneach. He left me this morning to go into
Derbyshire."
The name stirred a question.
"Had he news?" Alastair asked. "When I last saw you you prophesied
failure. Are you still of that mind?"
"I do not prophesy, but this I say--that since I saw you your chances
and your perils have grown alike. Your Cause is on the razor-edge and
you yourself may have the deciding."
_IX_ _Old England_
"Yesterday morning your Prince was encamped outside Carlisle. By now
the place may have fallen."
"Who told you?" Alastair asked.
"I have my own messengers who journey in Old England," said Midwinter.
"Consider, Captain Maclean. As a bird flies, the place is not a hundred
and fifty miles distant, and no mile is without its people. A word
cried to a traveller is taken up by another and another till the man
who rubs down a horse at night in a Chester inn-yard will have news of
what befell at dawn on the Scotch Border. My way is quicker than
post-horses. . . . But the name of inn reminds me. You have the look
of a fasting man."
Food was brought, and the November brume having fallen thick in the
hollow, the windows were curtained, a lamp lit, and fresh fuel laid on
the fire. Alastair kicked the boots from his weary legs, and as soon as
his hunger was stayed fell to questioning his host; for he felt that
till he could point a finger to the spy who had dogged him he had
failed in his duty to the Cause. He poured out his tale without reserve.
Midwinter bent his brows and stared into the fire.
"You are satisfied that this servant Edom is honest?" he asked.
"I have observed him for half a day and the man is as much in the dark
as myself. If he is a rogue he is a master in dissimulation. But I do
not think so."
"_Imprimis_, you are insulted in the Flambury inn by those who would
fasten a quarrel on you. _Item_, you are arrested and carried before
this man Thicknesse, and one dressed like a mummer presses the
accusation. _Item_, in a warrant you and your purposes are described
with ominous accuracy. You are likewise this very day tricked by your
gypsy guide, but that concerns rather my lady Norreys. These
misfortunes came upon you after you had supped with Kyd, and therefore
you suspected his servant, for these two alone in this country-side
knew who you were. A fairly argued case, I concede, and to buttress it
Kyd appears to have been near Flambury last night, when he professed to
be on the road for Wiltshire. But you have ceased to suspect the
servant. What of the master?"
Alastair started. "No, no. That is madness. The man is in the very
heart of the Prince's counsels. He is honest, I swear--he is too deep
committed."
Midwinter nodded. "If he were false, it would indeed go ill with you;
for on him, I take it, depends the rising of Wales and the Marches. He
holds your Prince in the hollow of his hand. And if all tales be true
the omens there are happy."
Alastair told of the message from Brother Gilly, and, suddenly
remembering Edom's papers, drew them from his pocket, and read them
again by the firelight. Here at last was news from Badminton and from
Monmouth and Hereford: and at the foot, in the cypher which was that
most commonly used among the Jacobites, was a further note dealing with
Sir Watkin Wynn. The writer had concerted with him a plan, by which the
Welsh levies should march straight through Gloucester and Oxfordshire
to cut in between Cumberland and the capital. To Alastair, the thing
was proved authentic beyond doubt, for it bore the pass-word which had
been agreed between himself and Sir Watkin a week before at Wynnstay.
He fell into a muse from which he was roused by Midwinter's voice.
"Kyd receives messages and forwards them northward, while he himself
remains in the South. By what channel?"
"It would appear by Sir John Norreys, who is now, or soon will be, at
Brightwell under the Peak."
As he spoke the words his suspicions took a new course. Johnson had
thought the man a time-server, though he had yesterday recanted that
view. Sir Christopher Lacy at Cornbury had been positive that he was a
rogue. The only evidence to the contrary was that his wife believed in
him, and that he had declared his colours by forsaking his bride for
the Prince's camp. But he had not gone to the army, and it would seem
that he had no immediate intention of going there, for according to
Edom he would be at Brightwell during the month; and as for his wife's
testimony, she was only a romantic child. Yet this man was the
repository of Kyd's secret information, the use of which meant for the
Prince a kingdom or a beggar's exile. If Kyd were mistaken in him, then
the Cause was sold in very truth. But how came Kyd to be linked with
him? How came a young Oxfordshire baronet, of no great family, and no
record of service, to be _Achilles_ of the innermost circle?
He told his companion of his doubts, unravelling each coil carefully,
while the other marked his points with jerks of his pipe-bowl. When he
had finished Midwinter kept silent for a little. Then "You swear by
Kyd's fidelity?" he asked.
"God in Heaven, but I must," cried Alastair. "If he is false, I may
return overseas to-morrow."
"It is well to test all links in a chain," was the dry answer. "But for
the sake of argument we will assume him honest. Sir John Norreys is the
next link to be tried. If he is rotten, then the Prince had better bide
north of Ribble, for the Western auxiliaries will never move. But even
if the whole hive be false, there is still hope if you act at once.
This is my counsel to you, Captain Maclean. Write straightway to the
Army--choose the man about the Prince who loves you most--and tell him
of the great things to be hoped for from the West. Name no names, but
promise before a certain date to arrive with full proof, and bid them
hasten south without delay. An invasion needs heartening, and if the
worst should be true no word from Kyd is likely to reach the Prince.
Hearten him, therefore, so that he marches to meet you. That is the
first thing. The second is that you go yourself into Derbyshire to see
this Sir John Norreys. If he be true man you will find a friend; if not
you may be in time to undo his treason."
The advice was what had dimly been shaping itself in Alastair's own
mind. His ardour to be back with the Army, which for days had been a
fever in his bones, had now changed to an equal ardour to solve the
riddle which oppressed him. Midwinter was right; the Cause was on a
razor edge and with him might lie the deciding. . . . There was
black treachery somewhere, and far more vital for the Prince than any
victory in Scotland was the keeping the road open for West England to
join him. Shadows of many reasons flitted across his mind and gave
strength to his resolve. He would see this man Norreys who had won so
adorable a lady. He would see the lady again, and at the thought
something rose in his heart which surprised him, for it was almost joy.
"Have you paper and ink?" he asked, and from a cupboard Midwinter
produced them and set them before him.
He wrote to Lochiel, who was his kinsman, for though he knew Lord
George Murray there was a certain jealousy between them. Very roughly
he gave the figures which he had gleaned from Brother Gilly's letter
and that taken from Edom. He begged him to move the Prince to march
without hesitation for the capital, and promised to reach his camp with
full information before the month ended. "And the camp will, I trust,
be by that time no further from St James's than----" He asked Midwinter
for a suitable place, and was told "Derby." He subscribed himself with
the affection of a kinsman and old playmate of Morvern and Lochaber.