AMONG THE GOLDEN GORSE
Yet for all her hoping and wishing Merrylips did not recognize her
soldiers of the king, when first she set eyes on them. She had been out
with Mawkin, one shimmery hot afternoon, to gather broom-flowers on
Cuckstead common. She had also found a lively little green snake, which
she was carrying home in her handkerchief to show to her godmother.
"And indeed my lady will not thank you for the sight of such vermin!"
protested Mawkin. "It giveth me creeps but to look thereon. Put it
down, do 'ee now, there's my lovey mistress."
Merrylips shook her head, and held fast to her handkerchief. So intent
was she upon the snake that she did not look up till she heard a sudden
little cry from Mawkin. At that moment they had come to the top of
a little swell of land, too gentle to be called a hill, whence they
could look down on the roofs of Larkland and the thatched cottages of
the village that nestled against its wall. They had reached indeed the
highest point of Cuckstead common, and there, couched among the golden
gorse, a boy was lying and a man was sitting by his side.
So well were the strangers screened that Mawkin had not spied them till
she was almost upon them. She gave a start of natural terror and laid
her hand on Merrylips' shoulder.
"Trudge briskly, mistress!" she bade, in a low voice. "I like not the
look of yonder fellow."
As she spoke, Mawkin glanced anxiously at the roofs of the village,
which were a good half mile away across the lonely common.
But Merrylips, who knew nothing of fear, halted short. To be sure, the
man seemed a rough fellow. He was low-browed, with a shock of fair hair
and a sunburnt face. His leathern breeches and frieze doublet were
soiled and travel-stained, and he had laid on the ground beside him a
bundle wrapped in a handkerchief and a great knotted cudgel. He looked
as Merrylips fancied a padder might look, but there was a helpless
distress in his pale eyes that made her, in spite of Mawkin's whisper,
turn to him.
"Were you fain to speak unto me?" asked Merrylips.
The man peered upon her stupidly beneath his thatch of light hair, and
seemed to grope for words.
"Ja, ja, gracious fräulein," he said, in a thick, foreign speech.
"Rupert, mein kindlein--he beeth outworn--sick."
At that the boy, who had lain face down among the flowering gorse,
turned languidly and lifted his head. He was a young boy, not so old as
Flip. He did not look like the man, for his hair was dark and soft, and
his eyes were gray. Indeed he would have been a handsome boy, for all
his mean garments, if his eyes had not been dulled and his face flushed
with weariness or with fever.
"Let be, Claus!" he said, in a weak voice. "I'll be better straightway,
and then we'll trudge."
But as he spoke, he let his dark head sink on his arms once more.
"He cannot lie in the fields," the man said thickly. "Gracious
fräulein--bring us to shelter!"
"Haply you may find charitable folk in the next village," struck in
Mawkin, who still was tugging at Merrylips' arm. "Come, mistress!"
But Merrylips cried, "Fie upon you, Mawkin! There's shelter at Larkland
for all who ask it. An you can bear your son thither, good fellow, my
godmother will make you welcome."
The man stared, as if he were slow to understand, but the boy dragged
himself to his knees.
"She saith--there's shelter," he panted. "Take me thither, good Claus."
Slowly they set out for Larkland, all four together, for Merrylips
would not leave her chance guests, and Mawkin, though she grumbled
beneath her breath, would not leave Merrylips. Claus, as the man was
called, half carried the boy Rupert, holding him up with one arm about
him, and Merrylips walked at the boy's side, and cheered him as well as
she could by repeating that it was not far to Larkland.
So they passed down the gentle slope of the common, with their shadows
long upon the right hand, through the heavy scent of the gorse, amid
the droning of bees. Always thereafter the warm, fruity fragrance of
gorse brought to Merrylips the picture of the common, all golden with
bloom, the feel of the sun upon her neck, and the sight of Rupert's
strained and suffering face, that was so sadly at variance with the gay
weather.
More than once they had to pause and sit by the path, while the lad
rested, leaning his heavy head upon Claus's shoulder. The first time
Merrylips tried to comfort him by showing him the little green snake,
but he would scarcely look upon it, so in disappointment she let it go
free.
[Illustration: MORE THAN ONCE THEY HAD TO PAUSE AND SIT BY THE
PATH, WHILE THE LAD RESTED.]
After that she talked with Claus. Had they come from far, she asked him?
"From beyond seas," he answered with a clumsy gesture to the south.
"Yonder--they call it Brighthelmstone--we came a-land. We are bound
to the king's army."
"Ay, the king," said Rupert, suddenly, and opened his eyes. "I am going
to fight for the king of England, even as my father fought. For," said
he, and his eyes sought Merrylips' face, yet seemed not to see her, "I
am English born."
Claus hushed him there, speaking in a tongue that Merrylips did not
know, but she had scarcely heeded Rupert's last words in her joy at
finding out that these strangers were recruits for the king's army.
"Oh!" said she. "You are going to the wars, even as my brothers will
go."
Jealously she looked at Rupert, who indeed seemed very childish as he
rested in the circle of Claus's arm.
"He is but little older than I," said Merrylips. "Can he fight?"
"One winter in the camps he hath been with me, in Bohemia," Claus
answered, when he had taken time to understand her question. "When he
is taller, ja, he will be a trooper, and a gallant one."
"I'll be no trooper," said the boy, scarcely raising his eyelids. "I'll
be captain of a troop, as was my father."
"Fine prattle for a beggar brat!" Mawkin grumbled.
But Merrylips gazed with adoring eyes on the big, rough man, who no
longer seemed to her like a padder, and the slender boy, who talked so
lightly of fighting for the king and winning captaincies.
"'Tis happy chance," said she, "that you came unto Larkland, for we are
here all Cavaliers, even as yourselves, and were I a lad, I'd go unto
the wars with you."
Then she met Rupert's eyes, fixed full upon her, and for the first
time, in all his pain, Rupert smiled, seeing her earnestness, and his
smile was winning.
"I would you were a lad and my brother, mistress!" he said.
Mawkin gave a little snort.
"A landleaper such as thou a brother to Sir Thomas Venner's daughter!"
she cried.
But Merrylips leaned nearer and laid her hand on the boy's limp fingers.
"You are coming unto Larkland to be made well," she said, "and oh,
Rupert! in very truth we'll be as good friends as if we were indeed
born brothers."