There was some delay at Warwick, and the authorities proved reluctant
to let them proceed farther with the journey. It was evident that
the commandant had received instructions regarding the very pass they
presented to him for their safe conduct, because he retired with it to
the guard-house, where he remained for a time that seemed perilously
long, and even when at last he came out with it he was plainly still
suspicious, and in doubt regarding what action he should take. It
was Frances who turned the scale in her own favour and that of her
companion.
“Where did you get this pass?” the commandant asked.
“At Corbiton Manor, in the county of Durham.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“It was given to me by General Cromwell’s direction, and written almost
in my own presence, I might say, or at least a few moments after I had
been speaking with him.”
“You went from Durham to Oxford?”
“Yes.”
“And have come from Oxford here?”
“Yes.”
“Did you travel through Banbury?”
“We stopped the night at Banbury; at ‘The Banbury Arms’.”
“Stopping there by the direction of General Cromwell himself,” put in
the girl, much to the surprise of William Armstrong. The officer looked
up at her with interest.
“When did the General give you such instructions?”
“Several days ago, at Northampton.”
“You saw him at Northampton?”
“Yes, and I saw him again this morning before daybreak.”
“Really. And where was that?”
“At Broughton Castle, three miles west of Banbury. In my presence he
told his aid to ride to Banbury, and send word North that this pass was
to be honored. Has the commander at Banbury not obeyed his General’s
instructions?”
“Yes, he has,” admitted the officer, looking with admiration on the
young woman who spoke so straightforwardly; “but the communication
came to me by way of Coventry, and it was somewhat vague. The messenger
reached here but a scant half hour since, and he spoke of one person,
not of two. May I ask your name?” he continued to the man.
“William Armstrong.”
“That is right, my orders are to pass William Armstrong, holding a
permit from the General, but say nothing of a lady.”
“That is doubtless the messenger’s mistake,” said Frances confidently.
“My brother is, or was, up to this morning, Lieutenant Wentworth of the
Parliamentary forces in Durham. This morning General Cromwell wrote
out his commission as captain, and that I brought away with me from
Broughton and sent it direct to Durham by my servant. But you may detain
me if you wish, or send an escort with me back to the General. It will
be a more serious matter if you detain Mr. Armstrong, who is a Scotsman,
and whom the General has been at some pains to further.”
“Indeed, madam, I shall detain neither of you. My only excuse is that
the messenger was not as clear as he might have been, and you come
so close on his heels. Besides, I have had disquieting news from
Birmingham. There is a rising of some sort forward. Birmingham has
already been smitten sore by the King’s troops, so there is little fear
that the citizens have risen in his favour, but I surmise that there has
been some sort of Royalist outbreak elsewhere in the North. Something is
afoot, for messengers have been galloping through Alcaster to the east
of us for Birmingham. You heard nothing of that further south?”
“No,” said Armstrong, who nevertheless had a shrewd suspicion where the
trouble lay. “If there is any Royalist rising in Birmingham I would like
to avoid the place. I have no wish to get among the Royalists. Are there
roads by which we can win east of Birmingham?”
“Oh, yes! I will sketch out a route for you, whereby you may reach the
main highway some seven miles north of Birmingham, at Sutton Coldfield.”
“I shall be much indebted to you, if you will be so good.”
The officer retired to the guard-house and brought out a rude map of
the district, which he gave to Armstrong after explaining it. He sent
a soldier to set them on the right way when they had left the village.
When the soldier had departed, and the two were once more alone,
Armstrong turned in his saddle and looked back at the frowning towers
of Warwick Castle, looming up through the trees, very suggestive of a
prison.
“That was a narrow shave,” he said, “and I have to thank you, Frances,
that we have squeezed through.”
The girl shook her head.
“Alas, circumstances are proving too strong for me,” she said
sorrowfully, “and all my old ideas of right and wrong are being flouted
day and night. Just now I have used truth for the purposes of falsehood,
a fault which I chided in you earlier in our journey. I wish we were
free of the entanglements and might be honest once more.”
“You have done well. Have no fear, and I still insist that the Lord
stands by us. We cannot meet force with force, and must use what craft
we are possessed of. Cromwell uses it, and so does the King. Why should
we be debarred? I think we are well out of that trap, and I am wondering
how many hours will elapse before the commander is sorry he let us go.”
They lunched on bread and cheese at a wayside hut, and once, when they
reached the top of a hill, they saw what they took to be Birmingham away
to the west. The by-roads they were traversing proved to be deserted,
and they resolved to keep to them rather than seek the main highway
at Sutton Coldfield or elsewhere, for they considered that their
comparative slowness would be more than compensated for by greater
safety. This course soon proved of doubtful wisdom. Without a guide
the intricate lanes were puzzling, and often came to an end without any
apparent reason. When they took to the fields the soil was heavy in many
cases, and fatigued their horses, besides entangling them sometimes in
low-lying lands that were almost marshes. To add to their difficulties
the sun became obscured in a haze, and the temperature dropped sharply,
condensing the moisture in the air about them, involving them in a mist
that was worse than the darkest night. Still they struggled on, leaving
the direction entirely to their horses. At last they came on what
appeared to be a cart track, and, following it, they arrived at a
labourer’s hut which faced a lane. Armstrong, without dismounting,
knocked at the door with his sword, and a frightened woman, holding it
ajar, answered the summons.
“We have lost our way,” said the young man, throwing her a coin to
bespeak good will; “can you tell us where we are?”
“Where are you going?” asked the woman, which proved a somewhat
difficult question to answer.
“What is the nearest town to the north of us?”
“Lichfield.”
“And how do we get to Lichfield from here?”
“Follow this lane to the cross-road, then take the lane to the left for
two miles, and it will lead you into the main road. Turn to the right,
and Lichfield is five or six miles further on.”
“If, instead of going to the main road, we keep to this lane, where will
it lead us?”
“It stops at the cross-road.”
“Where will the lane turning to the right lead us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there any way to the North except by the main road?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long have you lived in this cottage?”
“Twenty-three years, sir.”
“And you know only the way to Lichfield?”
“Yes, sir.”
He thanked the woman, and they rode on through the fog. The limited
knowledge of the English peasantry regarding the geography of their own
district had baffled him more than once during their journey, and this
was but a fair example of the ignorance he had to contend against. He
resolved to take the turn to the right in preference to the leftward
lane. He feared Lichfield or any other place of similar size, and he
dreaded the main road. It was impossible for Cromwell to patrol the
whole country at a moment’s notice, so the by-ways would be safer if
less direct. Their progress had been so slow that there was ample time
for a hard rider with relays of horses to have spread a warning far
ahead of them, and now caution, rather than speed, was their game. These
points he discussed with his companion as they rode along in the fog,
and she agreed with his conclusions. Each tried to cheer the other, but
both were undeniably discouraged by the conditions that surrounded them.
About a mile from the hut they came to the end of their road, with the
horizontal lane at its head, extending east and west. As they turned to
the right, some object loomed in the fog ahead, and there came a sharp
cry:
“Who goes there?”
“To the left,” whispered Armstrong, turning his horse. Frances obeyed
instantly, but the man in front fired his musket into the air and raised
a shout, whereupon four others sprang from the dripping bushes, and two
of them seized the reins of the startled horses.
“Resistance is useless,” said the soldier hanging to the rein of the
plunging Bruce, “there are a hundred men along this lane.”
“I have no need to resist,” cried Armstrong with affected indignation,
although none realized so well as he that the game was up. “We are
peaceful travellers under safe-conduct from General Cromwell himself.”
“The lieutenant will be here directly,” said the man, and as he spoke a
party of horsemen came galloping down the lane.
“Who fired that shot?” cried the officer in charge. Before an answer
could be given he came upon the two captives. “Who are you?” he
demanded.
“Travellers to Carlisle, who have lost their way in the mist and are
seeking the high road.”
“If you have a pass, let me see it.”
“Here it is!”
“Your name is Armstrong, perhaps?”
“The pass does not say so.”
“Do you deny it?”
“No.”
“You are prisoners. Where is the bugler?”
“Here, sir.”
“Sound the recall.”
The man placed the bugle to his lips, and the merry notes rang out into
the obscurity. All remained silent, then, like an echo from east and
west, almost in unison, came a similar call; and faintly in the further
distance another. The company seemed to increase mysteriously, as if
pikemen were being distilled out of the fog, and after a roll-call,
every name being answered, the lieutenant gave the word to march, and
horse and foot set out for the west, the two prisoners in the centre
of the phalanx. The head of Frances drooped, and Will rode close by her
side as cheerful as ever, trying to comfort her.
“Clever man, this Cromwell,” he whispered with admiration in his tones.
“You see what he has done? He has run thin lines across the country as
fast as horses could gallop, stringing out the local men as they went
along. We have probably blundered through one or two of these lines, but
were bound to be caught sooner or later, unless we made for the coast on
either side, and that would but have delayed things a bit, for there was
little chance of us getting ship with all ports in his hands. It serves
me right. I should have killed De Courcy and then galloped for it.
However, the Lord stands by us, Frances; never forget that.”
“It doesn’t look much like it,” said the girl despondently.
“Oh, well, nothing looks like itself in this accursed fog. Why could n’t
we have had this mist on the road from York? Still, I don’t think it
would have made any difference, once Cromwell’s riders got to the north
of us. Resourceful man, Oliver. I like him.”
“And I don’t. Yet you are supposed to be against him, and I am supposed
to be for him. I fear him; I fear him.”
“Oh, there’s no danger; not the slightest for either of us. You have
done your task, and have done it well. I am the blunderer. But I stand
on my status as a Scot, and I will argue the matter out with him. The
man I tumbled into the ditch was the King’s Chamberlain, and not a
Parliamentarian, and a foreigner at that. The document I am supposed to
carry was not given to me by the King, but taken by force from a minion
of the King, and a Frenchman. I have assaulted no Englishman, and
Cromwell knew I was travelling on this pass. He cannot deny that he
wrote it, and for exactly the purpose it has served. Oh, I shall have a
beautiful legal argument with Old Noll, and will upset him with his own
law. I’m in no danger; neither are you.”
“I trust it will appear so.”
“It cannot appear otherwise. He was trying to frighten you when he said
he would hang me. He is a sly, capable dog, who will be satisfied with
having beaten me, and will not court trouble with my countrymen by
hanging even a Borderer. It cost one of our Kings his throne to do the
like of that.”
This conversation, with which there was no interference on the part of
their captors, was brought to a conclusion by their arrival at the main
road. Here a halt was called and the bugle was sounded, again to be
answered, as before, from different directions. “Dismount,” said the
officer to Armstrong, whereupon the latter, without a word, sprang to
the ground. Against the next move he protested, but his opposition was
unavailing and indeed unreplied to. The officer gave the lady and the
two horses in charge of a party of six, with orders to take them to
Lichfield and install them in the cathedral. A guard was to be set at
the door, and no communication was to be allowed with any one outside.
Orders from headquarters were to the effect that the lady was to be
treated with every deference, and these orders were impressed upon the
six men. The detached squad disappeared down the road in the fog, and
Armstrong stood disconsolate and angry, but helpless, surrounded by
troopers.
The monotony of waiting was relieved by the frequent arrival of
companies from the east and from the west, who did not stay at the
cross-roads, however, but marched south toward Sutton Coldfield and
Birmingham. Thus the little company standing at arms was continually
augmented, and continually reduced to its original size. It was waiting
for some one higher in command than the mild lieutenant, and nearly two
hours passed before this man, set in authority, arrived. Armstrong heard
the trampling of horse to the south, and presently the sound of voices
became quite audible through the fog. There seemed to be a dispute going
forward, which was something unusual in the Parliamentary forces, where,
if discipline appeared lax, instant obedience was invariably required.
“I tell you, Colonel, I am to take charge of the lady and escort her to
Cromwell.”
“I have no orders to that effect.”
“I have come direct from Cromwell, and those were his orders.”
“I do not take orders from you. I hold written instructions relating to
both the man and the woman, and these I shall carry out.”
“You will be wise to hang the man on the nearest tree, and take his
papers to Cromwell.”
To this there was no reply, and Armstrong now knew that De Courcy had
not been so badly hurt as he had pretended, for he had taken a long ride
to the North since then. The prisoner recognized his voice long before
his cavalier costume emerged from the mist. De Courcy had not changed
his apparel, and it formed a strange contrast to the Parliamentary
uniform, as indeed did Armstrong’s own dress.
“Ah, my young friend,” cried De Courcy, the moment he recognized the
prisoner, “you had your laugh in the morning, and I have mine in the
evening.”
“There is a time for everything,” replied Armstrong indifferently, “and
my time for laughing is in the morning. It is brighter then.”
“Yes, it looks rather dark for you at the moment, and you seem less
merry than when I met you earlier.”
“Oh, there were more amusing things happening then, that’s all. How’s
your horse?”
“We are neither of us the worse for our encounter. Do n’t you wish you
could say the same for yourself?”
“I do, and I thank you for your sympathy.”
“Have you sent the woman to Lichfield?” asked the officer-in-chief of
his subordinate.
“Yes, Colonel; some two hours ago.”
“Very well. We will relieve you of your prisoner. Take your men to
Birmingham.”
“Is there any truth in the Royalist rising there, Colonel?”
“None in the least. Have you heard anything?”
“Nothing but a rumor that there was an outbreak of some sort. I heard
that a detachment from Lichfield was to leave for Birmingham.”
“We will turn it back if we meet it. Good night!” At the word the
lieutenant and his men marched off to the south, and Armstrong was taken
in charge by the squadron of horse. A trooper was dismounted and his
steed given to Armstrong, of whom no questions were asked, as he had
expected. They seemed very sure of their man. The cavalry set off to the
North, and De Courcy rode close beside his enemy, taking a delight in
taunting him. To this enforced companionship the Scot objected and made
appeal to the colonel.
“Sir, am I your prisoner, or do I belong to this renegade King’s man?
Who is in authority here,--you, or this Frenchman?”
To this the colonel made no reply, nor did he order De Courcy to the
rear, probably not wishing to offend one who seemed to be a friend of
Cromwell’s. The angry Scot was forced to make the best of it in silence,
while the Frenchman, very polite and jocular, pressed ironic services
upon him, asked after the girl, and said he would use his influence
with Cromwell to have a silken rope used at the coming execution of so
distinguished a spy. It is ill to tamper with a Border temper, as the
Frenchman soon discovered. Armstrong slipped his knife from his belt and
held it in readiness, when his attention was drawn to the trampling of
an approaching host in front of them, and he remembered that here was
coming the troop from Lichfield, which expected to meet a body of the
King’s men if the rumour from Birmingham were true. The rumour had no
doubt been started by the riding North in hot haste of this courtier now
at his side, at a time when such costume was not seen outside Oxford.
Besides, the country was in a constant state of alarm, and the wildest
tales were current, whose constant contradiction by afterevents did
nothing to allay ever-recurring panic. Armstrong quietly gathered up
his reins, watched his opportunity, and, instead of running his blade
between the ribs of De Courcy, jabbed the point into the flank of the
Frenchman’s horse.