When William Armstrong awoke, he thought he had overslept himself, for
the trampling of horses sounded in the paved courtyard below. The one
window of his room, over which he had drawn and fastened heavy wooden
shutters the night before, let in a thread of light which showed him a
new day had come, and the activity in the yard made him fear he had lain
longer abed than was his custom. He was the more convinced of this in
that he remembered hazily the clattering hoofs of a horse some time
before, and then later, another being led out; now there appeared to be
a third, and the hum of talk came up to him. His window overlooked
the stable yard, and he recognized the mumble of the hostler who had
assisted him yesterday. He lay still, half drowsed, the mattress most
alluring to him, when suddenly he was startled wide awake by a voice he
knew.
“Then I turn to the left for Broughton?”
“Yes, sir,” muttered the hostler.
Armstrong leaped from his bed, placed his eye at the chink in the
shutters, and peered down into the stable yard. The voice had not misled
him. De Courcy, sitting on a horse, was just gathering up the reins and
departing. The Scot lost no time in pulling on his boots, pushing aside
the bed, unbolting the door, and making his way down the stair. What
did this gaily plumaged bird of ill-omen here in the country of the
Parliament, when his place was beside the King? Was there treachery
afoot? It looked like it. Once outside, he saw it was still early, with
the sun scarcely risen. He accosted the yawning hostler.
“Who was that man you were directing to Broughton?”
“I don ’t know, sir.”
“When did he arrive?”
“Last night, sir, after dark.”
“Did he stop in this house?”
“Yes, sir. I thought he was a friend of yours, for he knew your horse
when I was putting up his own. He asked if you were here, and I told him
you were in the room over the yard.”
“What is Broughton; a hamlet?”
“It is a castle, sir. Lord Say’s castle, about three miles from here.
General Cromwell is there now; it is his headquarters in this district.”
“Cromwell!”
The young man stood stock still, his eyes gazing into vacancy. What
traffic had this King’s Chamberlain with Cromwell? How dared he come
within the Parliamentary lines, undisguised, unless--unless----Like
inspiration the whole situation flashed upon him. De Courcy knew the
burden he carried, and had seen where it was placed. He was on his way
to sell his secret and set the troops on the track of the messenger. He
must be off at once and outride the traitor. Before De Courcy had gone
his three miles, he would have traversed a dozen, and from then on it
would be a race to the Scottish border.
“Is my horse fed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get him out at once. I will arouse the others.” He took three steps
toward the inn, then stopped as if shot, his hand clutching his breast.
“By God, he’s got the thing itself. Robbed, as I’m a sinner!”
Now the disturbance in the night stood out clear in his memory, but he
wasted not a thought over it. In upon the astonished hostler he swept.
“Never mind the saddle, fellow. Spring up behind me and show me the road
to Broughton. Up, I say, the horse can carry a dozen like us. Here are
two gold pieces for you; guidance and a still tongue in your head is
what I want.”
Armstrong grasped the two pistols from the holsters, flung the
hesitating hostler upon the animal’s back, and leaped up in front of
him.
“Which way, which way, which way?”
“Straight down the street, sir,” gasped the terrified man, clasping the
rider round the waist. “Now to the right, sir, and next to the left.
That’s it, sir. Up the hill. Ah, there’s your man, jogging on ahead,
leisurely enough, if it’s him you seek.”
“Right! Slip off; I can ’t stop. God be with you!”
The hostler rolled in a heap along the ditch, staggered to his feet,
feeling his limbs for broken bones, thinking his gold pieces hardly
earned in such usage; then, satisfying himself that the damage was not
great, hobbled back to Banbury.
De Courcy, riding easily, as the man had said, wholly unsuspicious of
pursuit or any reason for it, had disappeared into a hollow when Bruce,
like a thunder-cloud, came over the crest, and charged down upon him
with the irresistible force of a troop of dragoons. The Frenchman,
hearing too late the rumble of the hoofs, partly turned his horse across
the road, the worst movement he could have made, for Bruce, with a
war-neigh, came breast on, maddened with the delight of battle, and
whirled opposing horse and rider over and over like a cart-wheel flung
along the road from the hand of a smith. De Courcy lay partly stunned at
the roadside, while his frightened steed staggered to its feet, leaped
the hedge with a scream of fear, and scampered across the field to
its farthest extremity. Armstrong swung himself to the ground with a
quieting word to Bruce, who stood still, panting, and watching every
movement of his master. A pistol in each hand, Armstrong strode over to
his victim.
“You halter-dog, traitor, and scullion, give me the King’s commission.”
“Sir, you have killed me,” moaned De Courcy faintly.
“You bribed thief, the rope is your end. You’ll take no scath through
honourable warfare. Disgorge!”
De Courcy, vaguely wondering how the other knew he carried it, drew from
within his torn doublet the second commission signed by the King, and
handed it up with a groan to the conqueror. As it was an exact duplicate
of the one he had lost, even to the silken cord, the honest Scot had not
the slightest doubt he had come by his own again, and the prone man was
equally convinced that some one had betrayed to Armstrong his secret
mission, yet for the life of him could not guess how this were possible.
The young man placed the document where its predecessor had been, then
said to his victim: “Had I a rope and a hangman with me, you would end
your life on yonder tree. When first I learned your character, you were
in some danger from my sword; a moment since you stood in jeopardy from
my pistols; beware our third meeting, for if you cross my path again, I
will strangle you with my naked hands, if need be.”
De Courcy made no reply. He realized that this was not a time for
controversy. A standing man well armed has manifest advantages over an
enemy bruised and on the ground, and some thought of this came to the
mind of the generous victor now that his anger was cooling. He felt that
it was rather undignified to threaten a helpless adversary, and if he
were a traitor to the King, let the King deal with him. So, whistling to
his horse, he sprang on his back, and rode to Banbury at a slower pace
than he had traversed the same highway some minutes before.
The hostler made grievous pretence that he had been all but murdered
by his fall, and Armstrong examined him minutely, as he would have done
with a favourite horse, pronouncing him none the worse for his tumbling,
but rather the better, as he was now more supple than he had been for
years. He rewarded the man lavishly, nevertheless, and gave him the
recipe for a liniment good for man and beast, should after-complications
ensue.
“I hope, sir,” whined the man, “that you did not treat the gentleman you
were in such haste to meet, as roughly as you did me.”
“Very much the same,” cried Armstrong, with a laugh, “but you are the
better off, because I left him neither gold nor medicine; taking from
him rather than bestowing.”
“Ah, is _that_ your game?” whispered the hostler, a glint of admiration
lighting up his eyes. “Dang me, if I did not take thee for a gentleman
of the road when first I clapped eyes on thee. Be sure I’ll say naught,
for I’ve cut a purse myself in younger days. Those times were better
than now. There’s too many soldiers and too few gentlemen with fat
purses travelling the roads nowadays for our trade.”
Again William laughed, and shook hands with the old man, as one
highwayman in a good way of business might condescend to another less
prosperous, and the veteran hostler boasted of his intimacy with a noted
freebooter for the rest of his days.
“Rub down my horse well, while I am at breakfast,” said Armstrong, and,
receiving every assurance that the beast of so excellent a highwayman
should get earnest attention, he went to the inn and there found Frances
awaiting him.
The girl was standing by the window, which was low and long, with a
valance of crimpled spotted muslin running athwart the lower half of
it. A bench was fixed beneath the window, and on this bench the girl had
rested a knee, while her cheek was placed against the diamond panes.
The light struck her face and illuminated it strongly, and she stood so
still that she seemed to form part of a tableau which might have been
entitled “Watching.” On the table placed in the centre of the room,
breakfast was spread.
It was a jubilant man who disturbed this quiet picture by his abrupt
in-coming. The early morning gallop, the excitement of contest, the
flush of victory, all had their effect on his bearing, and he came in
with the mien of a Saxon prince, his yellow hair almost touching the
beams of the low ceiling. The two formed a striking contrast when the
embodiment of elation approached the embodiment of dejection. There was
a new furtiveness in the brief glance she cast upon him, and after her
first startled cognizance she looked beyond him, on either side of him,
over his head, or at his feet, but never turned her eyes full upon him
as of yore.
“Ah, my girl,” he cried, “you have not slept well. I can see that at
once. This will never do; never do at all. But you are certainly looking
better this morning than you did last night. Is that not so?”
“You are looking very well,” she said, avoiding his question.
“Oh I’ve had a morning gallop already.”
“What! With the ride to Scotland still before you. Is not a merciful man
merciful to his horse?”
“He should be, but I may say this for Bruce; he enjoyed the ride quite
as much as I did. And now I am ravenous for breakfast, and eager for the
road again.” He tinkled a little hand-bell that rested on the table.
“We have another splendid day for it. The sunrise this morning was
positively inspiring. Come, lass, and sit you down. We must get the
roses back into those cheeks, and I think the ride to-day will do it;
for we will be nearing the North, ever nearing the North, and you are
just like me, you are yearning for the Northland, where all the men are
brave and all the women fair.”
“Fair and false, perhaps you would add. That was your phrase, I think.”
William laughed heartily, drawing in his chair.
“Yes, about our Stuarts, not about our ladies. They are ever leal and
true. And indeed many of them are dark as well as fair, and they are the
best. Dark hair, fair face, and a loyal heart; there is a combination to
cherish when God is good to a man and allows him to meet it.”
The servant had now answered the tinkling bell, and Frances was too busy
acting the housewife to make any comment on his enthusiastic description
of what was to be found in the North. Her pale cheeks reddened as he
spoke, and he took this for a promising sign. She was convinced that he
had as yet no knowledge of his loss, and wondered when and where such
knowledge would come to him. She hoped the enlightenment would be
delayed until they were near the Scottish line or across it. Then she
must tell him the truth at whatever cost to herself, and persuade him,
if she could, not to return. When she made her confession, she would be
in a position to relate all Cromwell had said to her; show him that the
General had given orders which would block any backward move, and reveal
his determination to hang the Scot should he entangle himself further
with English politics. Yet she had the gravest doubts that these dangers
would influence him. She knew him well enough to be aware that his own
personal safety weighed but lightly with him, and the very opposition
would determine him to try conclusions with it, unabashed by the
overwhelming odds against him.
These reflections troubled her until the time they were on their horses
once more, when Armstrong interrupted them by crying out:
“Where’s old John?”
“I sent him on ahead long since,” replied Frances.
“Good. We shall soon overtake him. Good bye, pirate!” he cried to the
grinning hostler. “May I meet you on the road next time with a thousand
pounds on you, and if you whisper ‘Banbury’ to me, I will not lift a
penny of it.”
“Good luck to you and your fair lady, sir,” replied the enriched old
man, raising his cap in salute. He wished more travellers like the
brawny Scot came that way.
“Why do you call the poor man a pirate?” asked Frances.
“Oh, we’re comrades!” laughed Armstrong. “He thinks me a capable,
prompt, and energetic highwayman, and admitted on the quiet that he had
cut a purse himself upon occasion in the days of his youth.”
“And why does he think you a highwayman?”
“Ah, that would be telling. Suppose it is because I escort the fairest
lady in the land? The sex have ever favoured the biggest rascals. No, I
shall not incriminate myself, but shall maintain my pose of the amiable
hypocrite. Here rides Will Armstrong, the honest man, if you take his
own word for it. But the hostler knows better. He sees secret comings
and goings, and draws his sage conclusions. Banbury! O Lord, I shall
never forget Banbury! It is a place of mystery, the keeper of dark
secrets and sudden rides, of midnight theft and of treachery. Ask the
Broughton road, where Cromwell lies, to reveal what it knows. Things
happen along that track which the King knows nothing of, and his royal
signature takes journeys that he never counted upon.”
“Heaven’s pity! What do you mean?” moaned the girl, whitening to
the lips. He laughed joyously, but checked himself when he saw the
terrifying effect of his words on his companion. They were now clear of
Banbury and trotting along the Coventry road. Their departure had met
with no opposition, and they had seen not even a single soldier. The
open country lay before them, the turrets of the town sinking in the
rear.
“My foolish words have frightened you. Forget them! I am accumulating
experiences that will interest you to hear when the time comes for the
telling of them, but of one thing I am assured, the good Lord stands
by his own, and He has shielded me since yesterday morning broke. Come,
Frances, let us gallop. That, and a trust in the Lord, will remedy all
the ills of man or woman.”
She was glad of the respite and they set off at full speed, nevertheless
her mind was sorely troubled. “What did he know, what did he know?” beat
through her brain in unison with the clatter of the horse’s hoofs. It
was not possible that chance had brought him thus to the very centre of
her guilty secret. Cromwell, treachery, midnight stealth, the Broughton
road, these words and phrases tortured her. Was this, then, the line
of his revenge? Did he know all, and did he purpose to keep her thus in
suspense, hinting, soothing her fears, then reviving them, making her
black crime the subject of jest and laughter? She cast a glance over
her shoulder. Banbury had disappeared; they were alone, flying over
the land. The doubt was unbearable; she would endure it no longer.
Impetuously she reined her horse to a stand. “Stop!” she cried, and at
the word her own horse and Bruce halted and stood. The young man turned
with alarm to her agitated face.
“What do you mean by your talk of Broughton and Cromwell?”
“Oh, that is a secret! I did not intend to tell you until our journey
was ended, when we could laugh over it together.”
“It is no laughing matter. I must know what you mean.”
“All dangers are laughable once they are past. An unknown, unsuspected
danger threatened me at Banbury. It is now past and done with, and the
person who plotted against me can harm me no more. There are reasons why
I do not wish to mention this person’s name. Barring that, I may tell
you now as well as another time, if you care to listen.”
“Do I know the person?”
“Oh, yes! You knew the person long before I did. It was a person I
trusted, but not know to be a traitor and a thief.”
It was some moments before Frances could speak, but at last she said
very quietly, looking down at her horse’s mane,--“Tell me the story, and
I will tell you the name of the thief.”
“You slept badly last night Did you hear anything?”
“I--I-----I heard the clock strike the hours.”
“I heard it strike three, but lay so locked in drowsiness that I knew
not the Lord was calling to me. If the Seven Sleepers were melted into
one, I would outsleep that one. Well, to get on, I was robbed in the
night. It must have been at that hour, for I remember dimly some sort
of disturbance. But Providence stood my friend. By the merest chance, it
might seem, but not by chance as I believe, I saw the creature make for
Broughton. ‘So, here’s for Broughton,’ cried I, ‘on the bare back of
Bruce, and see if my good pistols would win back what had been stolen
from me.’ The Broughton road it was, and the pistols did the business.”
Saying this, he whisked from his pocket the King’s commission, waving
it triumphantly aloft. Her wide eyes drank in the amazing sight of it,
slowly brimming with superstitious fear, and then she asked a duplicate
of the question that had been asked of her a few hours before.
“Did you kill Cromwell?”
“Cromwell! I never saw him.”
“From whom, then, did you wrench that parchment?”
“From the thief, of course. He never reached Cromwell.”
“Oh, I am going mad! Who is the thief, who is the thief?”
“De Courcy, if you must know. Why does this trivial matter so disturb
you? De Courcy followed us from Oxford last night, and was lodged at our
inn. By some means he penetrated into my room, stole this from me, and
I never missed it until I saw him ride for Broughton, and not even then,
to tell the exact truth. But I remembered that he had seen me place this
paper in the inside pocket of my vest, in the King’s own presence, and
then the whole plot came to me. Before he saw Broughton, Bruce and I
were down upon him like a Highland storm on the Lowlands. ‘My sword!
you should have seen us! For a minute there was one whirligig of horse’s
legs and Frenchman, like a raree-show of acrobats struck by a whirlwind.
If I had not been so angry I would have had the best laugh of my
life,”--and the genial William threw back his head and made the wood
echo with his merriment at the recollection. But the girl was sober
enough.
“This is not the King’s commission,” she said quickly.
“Oh, but it is!”
“It is not. Have you read it?”
“No, but that’s soon done.”
He untied the cord and unfolded the sheepskin.
She leaned eagerly forward and scanned the writing, while Armstrong read
it aloud.
“You see,” he cried gleefully. “Of course it is the commission. There
are the names of Traquair, and all the rest, just as I gave them to the
secretary, and there is ‘Charles Rex’ in the King’s own hand.”
“It is a duplicate. Cromwell has the original. You never left De Courcy
alive within a mile of Broughton Castle?”
“I did that very thing. Not as lively as I have seen him, yet alive
nevertheless.”
“Then ride, ride for the North. We have stood too long chattering here.”
“All in good time, Frances. There is no more hurry than ever there was;
less, indeed, for it seems to me that Cromwell, for some reason, wants
to come at this by fraud and not by force. But now that De Courcy’s name
is mentioned between us, I ask you what you know against him more than I
have told you?”
“Against him? I know everything against him. Would that you had killed
him. He would sell his soul, if he has one. He robbed my dying father,
and on the day of his death, when I was the only one in London who
did not know he was executed, De Courcy lured me to his apartments at
Whitehall under pretense of leading me to the King that I might plead
for my father’s life. There he attempted to entrap me, snapped in my
hand the sword which I had clutched from the wall to defend myself,
and I struck him twice in the face, and blinded him with his own false
blood, and so escaped. Judge, then, my fear when I saw him there at
Oxford.”
“The truth! The truth! At last the truth!” shouted Armstrong, as if a
weight had fallen from his shoulders. “The truth has a ring like honest
steel, and cannot be mistaken when once you hear it. He lied to me about
you in Oxford, and I called him liar, and would have proven it on him,
but that he told me you were in danger. I should have killed the whelp
this morning, but that he could not defend himself.”
“The truth! Yes, but only part of it. He did not rob you last night.”
“Nonsense! He did.”
“I robbed you. I stole into your room and robbed you. I carried the
original of that document to Cromwell himself, and it is now in his
hands. It was the price of my brother’s life. My brother was set on
your track by Cromwell, and, being wounded, I took up his task. Do you
understand? That was my mission to Oxford. To delude you, to rob you,
and I have done it.”
“Girl, you are distraught!”
“I am not. Every word I tell you is true.”
“You are saying that to shield some one.”
“Look, William Armstrong! For two hours and more, last night, you
held me by the wrist. There is the bracelet with which you presented
me,--black proof of the black guilt I confess to you.”
She held her hand aloft, and the sleeve fell away from the white and
rounded arm, marred only by the dark circles where his fingers had
pressed.
“Do you say I did that?”
“Yes. If still you do not believe me, measure your fingers with the
shadow they have cast.”
She reached out her hand to him, and he took it in his left, stroking
the bruised wrist with his right, but looking into her eyes all the
while.
“Frances, is it this secret that stood between us?”
“Yes.”
“Is this _all_ that stood between us?”
“All! Is it not enough? All! It is a mountain of sin that bears me to
the very ground.”
“Why, dear lass, did you not tell me?”
“Tell you? It was from you, of all the world, I must conceal it until
now.”
He laughed very quietly, fondling her hand.
“Bless me, how little you know! What is quarreling King or rebellious
country to me compared with you? No wonder my beating heart did not
awaken me with your hand upon it, for it was co-conspirator with you,
and wholly your own. Heaven mend my broken patriotism!--but if you
had asked me, I would have ridden myself to Cromwell with the King’s
signature.”
“Do you----can you forgive me, then?”
“Forgive you? You are the bravest lass in all the land,”--and with that,
before she was aware or could ward off his attack if she had wished to
do so, he reached impulsively forward, caught her off her horse, and
held her in his arms as if she were a child, kissing her wounded wrist,
her eyes, her hair, her lips. “And now, do you forgive _me_, Frances?”
“Oh, willingly, willingly! Trespass for trespass. ‘As we forgive them
that trespass against us.’ But set me on my horse again, I beg of you.”
“I can hardly believe you are here yet.”
“Cease, cease, I beg of you! The moments are too precious for it.”
“Precious they are and most preciously employed.”
“Will, Will, I implore you. Do you not understand? You are jesting on
the brink of the grave. De Courcy has crawled to Cromwell ere this,
and that grim man is lighting the North against us. They are now on our
track.”
“The way is clear. There is no one in sight, and we can outride them
when they come.”
“They are riding across country to intercept us. Oh, let not my arms
hold you back for destruction. Cromwell himself told me he would hang
you if he had to take you openly.”
“He dare not. Have no fear!”
“He dares anything. You do not know that man, and your condemnation,
this document, rests now on the heart it would still. Cromwell will move
the world to tear it from you. If you love me as you say, let us to the
North at once.”
Well he knew the truth of her warning, now that he understood the case,
but was reluctant to let her go. The last appeal had its effect, and he
placed her once more on her horse. Together they set off again, through
a land that seemed silent and at peace; but it was only seeming.