AN ADVENTURE ON THE CANTERBURY ROAD
It is difficult for me to describe my feelings at this time. For while
on the one hand I was pleased that the king should speak so kindly to
me, I was in a most unaccountable way disturbed at the news of Mistress
Constance Denman's imprisonment. So much so that, as I have said, I
determined that, happen what would, I would rescue her from prison. Why
I should decide to do this may seem to the reader somewhat of a puzzle.
I knew but little of her, and even that which I knew was not in her
favour. She was the wife of a man who, although calling himself a
Puritan, was a hard, unscrupulous man, evidently one who would intrigue
against the king, and be a party to murder. But not only this, she was
herself guilty of attempted murder, and therefore a dangerous woman. I
knew that General Monk had been much hated when he had yielded to the
desires of those who sought to bring about the king's return, especially
as he was thought to have been a traitor to all the promises he had
made. Nevertheless, none but a desperate lawless woman would be guilty
of attempted murder, and thus the justice of which the king had spoken
was surely merited.
In spite of this, however, I determined to save her. It is true she had
treated me with scant courtesy, and although she had told me to wait
outside Pycroft Hall until her return, she had never again appeared.
Evidently she had left Pycroft Hall only to be taken prisoner, and then
conveyed to Bedford. I knew by the look on Monk's face that no mercy
would be shown, while it was easy to be seen that the new king would be
anything but clement towards the daughter of John Leslie, who had been
one of the principal actors in bringing about the death of his father.
Still, I was not changed in my resolution, neither for that matter could
I bring myself to believe that she was guilty of the crime of which she
was accused. I knew that she was a brave, resolute woman. No one could
be with her as I had been and not be sure of that, but her face was not
the face of one who could coldly meditate upon and arrange for murder.
Passionate she might be, and therefore in the heat of the moment might
be led to do a terrible deed. But she could not plan to do it. Such a
scheme as had been described to me must have been brooded over in cold
blood, and I could not believe that she could have done this.
I called to mind my first sight of her features, and I felt confirmed in
my impression. She was only twenty, and her face was free from the
possibility of such a crime. A noble face I thought it was, and even at
the time I felt that its possessor was a noble woman.
All this passed through my mind as I stood beneath the canopy prepared
for the king, while the multitudes were shouting all around. So much was
I occupied with them, moreover, that unlike the others I did not follow
his Majesty to the great coach in which he was to ride to Canterbury;
but remained there alone, brooding over what I had heard.
"Roland."
"Yes, father."
"Come! we must needs haste."
"Why?"
"Because we will follow in the procession to Canterbury. The horses are
saddled. I have seen to that."
"Yes, father."
This I said like one in a dream, for while I had it in my mind that the
journey to Canterbury would suit me well, seeing that we should be on
our way to London, my mind was so occupied with other things that I paid
but scant heed to his words.
A little later we were on our way out of the town, a great crowd
following the king, while a greater crowd prepared to remain in Dover,
so as to take part in the carousing which had, been arranged. On the
hill near I saw Dover Castle, which looked stately and grand in the
smiling sunlight, while seaward the waters gleamed brightly, as though
nature sought to harmonize with the gladness of the multitude. All
around the people continued to cry "God save the king!" while guns
boomed with a great, thundering noise, and bands of music played merry
tunes.
"Methinks, this is a great day, Roland," said my father, who rode close
to my side.
I did not reply, for my mind was full of the thought of the woman who
lay in prison.
"The king seemed pleased with you."
"Ay," I replied, "I trust so."
"Trust nothing, Roland."
I gazed nervously around, fearing lest my father's words should be heard
and reported to the king.
"You need not fear to speak, Roland," said my father. "No attention is
paid to us. Besides, there is such a noise that no man can hear you
speak, save me, whose ear is close to your mouth. In truth had I a
matter of secrecy to discuss I would desire no better place."
I continued silent, first because there seemed nought to say, and second
because I thought of other matters.
"I have thought much of what you related to me last night," continued my
father, "and I have concluded that you have forgotten to speak to me of
many matters."
In this my father spoke truly, for although I had spoken freely
concerning my interview with old Solomon, I had said but little
concerning the woman whose fate had become of so much interest. Why I
had refrained from doing this I knew not, yet so it was.
"I have told you all I know concerning the thing I went to seek," I
replied.
"Ay, that is so, Roland, and thou hast never told me a lie. But I am
convinced of this: That old man never intended thee to die in that
cavern."
"No," I replied. "What is your reason for believing that?"
"I have many reasons."
"Then why did he leave me?"
"To return after you had fasted two or three days, and when your
strength would be so gone that he would be able to make his own terms
with you."
I had not thought of this before, and I wondered at my dullness, for
there was sense in my father's surmise, and I fancied there might be
truth in it.
"I see gay doings ahead," said my father presently.
"Ay," I replied, for I was thinking of the reception the king would meet
in London.
"Never did a king come to a throne under fairer skies," said my father.
"He hath come back without conditions. His will is as powerful as his
father desired his own to be. But there will be a terrible time for the
Puritans."
"But he hath promised general forgiveness."
"He is the son of his father, and all the world knows what a Stuart's
promises are worth. But never mind, thou hast found favour. See that
thou dost make use of it. But ask for nothing yet; throw your dice
carefully. But, Roland, you must obtain those papers."
Again I looked nervously around, but I saw at a glance that no one paid
heed to us.
"I tell you, you must do nothing until they are in your possession."
"No," I replied eagerly enough, for his commands fell in with my mood.
"I can do nothing to help you."
I looked at him inquiringly.
"Nothing. I shall have other things to look after. But you are no fool,
and you must do it yourself. And mind, never sow your seed until your
ground is prepared."
At this I set to wondering much as to what might be in my father's mind,
but not, I am afraid, to much purpose, seeing that the noise of the
crowd seemed to increase rather than diminish, especially as we drew
near Canterbury.
Arrived at this old city, the king make straight for the Cathedral, and
so great was the multitude who desired to follow him that I became
separated from my father; and then, scarcely regretting the happening, I
rode away from the turmoil, and set out for London town with all speed.
A full hundred miles lay before me, but I hoped that by hard riding,
even although the day was somewhat spent, I should get thither before
midnight. My horse had rested for several days, and had been well fed
and groomed during the time, and being a creature of high mettle, he
responded to the feelings of his rider, and dashed forward at a fine
speed. I had not ridden many miles, however, before I noticed that two
men were riding behind me, and as I judged were anxious to keep me in
sight. At first I took but little note of them, but when I found they
kept about the same distance from me, neither losing nor gaining upon
me, I began to wonder what was in their minds. About five o'clock in the
afternoon I stopped at an inn, so that I might obtain refreshment for my
horse and myself, and also, as I thought, give them an opportunity of
passing me. I took my place near the window, so that I might be able to
watch my horse and the road, at the same time, but although I let
nothing escape me, I saw neither of them pass by the hostelry in which I
was sitting.
"They must have taken some other road," I said to myself, and when after
a few minutes I again mounted, and on looking around saw no sign of
them, I was confirmed in my impression. But in this I was quickly
deceived, for I had not gone a mile along the road, before I heard the
sound of horses' hoofs, and on turning round, I saw these same two men
at a short distance from me.
I stopped, determining to have the matter out with them, but the moment
I did so they likewise stopped, as if by set purpose.
"Two to one," I said to myself, "and both are armed. It were foolish for
me to pick a quarrel." So I determined to outdistance them by hard
riding. But here again I failed to succeed, for although as I have said
Black Ben was young and fleet, I could gain not one yard upon them.
If I galloped they did likewise, and if I dropped into a canter they
followed my example. This kind of thing was kept up until I saw the sun
begin to sink, and then, seeing a piece of lonely country before me, I
began to apprehend an attack.
"Two to one," I repeated to myself, and I began to examine my pistols,
and to see to it that my sword lay easy in its sheath; but no sooner had
I done this than they vanished as if by magic, and I was left alone.
Upon this I again gave Black Ben rein, but by this time he had become
somewhat wearied by his long journey, so that although I made good
speed, I feared to press him too hardly.
A little later, and the night had fallen; moreover my way led through a
wood, which made everything dark, so that I had to ride warily. Added to
this, I presently approached a steep hill, where I rode slowly so that
my horse might take breath. I had scarcely gone half-way up when I heard
a rustle among the bushes at my side, and before I had time to draw
either pistol or sword, my arms were pinioned, and I was thrown to the
ground with great force.
"Not a sound, not a movement, or I will blow your brains out," said some
one in my ear.
I tried to catch sight of his face, but in vain. The woods made the road
dark, and as far as I could judge he was closely muffled. Moreover the
fall stunned me, and so numbed my senses that I was unable to think
clearly. I remember, however, that they searched my pockets, which made
me think of them as common footpads, but even when they had done this
they did not leave me.
"Have you found it?" said one.
"Not a sign of it," said another.
"But the fellow hath it: we must get it out of him somehow."
"He hath not, I tell you. I've searched him to the skin. This was easy,
for the fall knocked all life out of him. He lies like a man dead."
"Surely, we've not killed him?"
"No, he breathes."
"Then ask him where he put it, and threaten to flog him alive if he will
not tell you."
"A good thought. I say there--wake up!" and he shook me violently.
By this time my senses had come back to me sufficiently to know that I
should learn most by holding my peace. I therefore continued to lie like
a man dead.
"I say, you Rashcliffe, speak up. It's to your advantage, man," the man
continued.
This, as you may be sure, made me more alert than ever, I was now
convinced that these were no common footpads, but men who had followed
and attacked me for a purpose. They knew my name, and they suspected me
of having something which they desired. Immediately I thought of old
Solomon's words, "the Duke of York would give his eyes to have this
thing." Were these men agents of the duke, and had they discovered that
I had found out where the marriage contract was?
"It's no use, Rickmore. He must have struck his head against a stone
when we dragged him from his horse. He may lie like this for hours."
"You are sure you've searched him thoroughly?"
"Every rag upon his body?"
"And what have you found?"
"Nought but a little money and his pistols."
"Pull off his boots, it may be there."
I allowed them to pull off my boots, lying limp and inert as they did
so; but, as may be imagined, they were again disappointed.
"The fellow hath nought," said the man who had been called Rickmore,
"and 'pon my word, I believe he's dead."
"Then Duke James will have to wait."
"Hush, man, some one may hear!"
"Hear!" and the other laughed scornfully. "There's not a living soul
within three miles of the place. I say Duke James will have to wait. The
thing must be found, but this springald hath it not, spite of the
woman's speech."
"Doth the thing exist at all?"
"Exist! You should have seen the look on Duke James' face when I told
him what Katharine Harcomb had said to me. 'By the Holy Virgin,
Hamilton,' said he, speaking like the good Catholic he is, 'get hold of
the young rascal. Never let him out of your sight until you have
obtained all he hath found, and know all he can tell you.'"
"Did he say that?"
"Ay he did. I tell you he puts great store on it."
"But the fellow hath it not."
"No, and what is worse we have so nearly killed him that he might as
well be dead."
"Well, what are we to do?"
"We can do nought but return to London, and wait for the coming of the
king. At all events the king is king, thanks to Monk."
"He's to be made a duke, I hear."
"After Denman's wife tried to send him to heaven?"
"Ay, and would have succeeded, but for a mishap."
"Nay, nay. She might have sent him to hell, but never to heaven."
"Well, from all I hear no one could wish to be sent to the other world
by a fairer hand. Men have it that when Denman married Master Leslie's
daughter, he wedded a face as fair as an angel's."
"Well, it'll not save her from the gallows. Had her father not been such
a Puritan, it might have gained her favour with King Charles, but I hear
that the very name stinks in his nostrils. I am told that she nearly
escaped, but a man rode night and day to Dover to tell Monk that she had
been captured, and was safely lodged in Bedford Gaol."
"She must be a brave woman. Were she not the wife of such a fellow as
Denman I would strike a blow for her deliverance. Bedford Gaol is not a
hard place to get out of, for the gaoler not only loves his wine, but
will take a bribe. Besides, the woman who tried to send Monk into
eternity deserves some help. But say, what are we to do with this young
jackanapes?"
"Do you think he's dead?"
"No; he lives, although there's no knowing how much we've hurt him. We
dare not let it be known that we've had aught to do with him. Duke James
was very careful to tell us that everything must be done in secret."
"Then let him lie, while we make our way to London."
"Shall we take his money? He will think then that we are footpads."
"No, we cannot do that, badly as we need it. After all, a gentleman is a
gentleman."
"Nor his horse? It is a good one."
"Nay, that might tell tales. Besides, we are well supplied; let us on to
London. A good night's rest to you, Master Rashcliffe."
"With apologies for delay."
"And a curse upon you for not having what we wanted."
I heard them laugh as they mounted and rode away, as though they were
pleased with themselves. For some time I did not move; I thought it
would be wiser to keep up the part I had been playing, for fear they
might come back. Presently I heard the sound of horses coming towards me
from the Canterbury road, and this led me to get up with all speed, and
to call Black Ben to my side. A few minutes later I was again on
horseback, but little the worse for my happening, although sore vexed
with myself for being mastered so easily. Still, I had learnt something.
I was not the only one who was trying to obtain Lucy Walters' marriage
contract, while my father was not the only one to whom Katharine Harcomb
had spoken concerning the thing. Moreover I had been confirmed in my
information concerning the prison of Mistress Denman, neither did I fail
to take note of what was said about the gaoler.
On the whole, therefore, I was not ill-pleased with the night's events,
and possessed no very bitter feelings towards either Master Rickmore or
Master Hamilton.
Nothing of importance happened further to me that night. As I drew
nearer London, I found the people talking much about the gay doings
which were to take place when the king came back to his loyal city, as
well as the terrible punishments which would be meted out to all who in
any way took part in King Charles' death. I did not stay in London
longer than I could help, however, for, foolish as it may appear, I
determined to ride to Bedford, and if possible deliver from prison the
woman who had been my companion to Pycroft Hall but a few nights
before.