Lord Strass was laughing. “Then I’ll attack their right wing. That will be Darron, as far as we know. Good. Should James come with me?”
“Yes,” said Robert. “His father is with Towerwood in the center.”
“No,” said James of March. “Send me against Moyne on the right.”
“We want Bress there, James. Go with Rupert,” Robert answered. “No, please do not argue. Now, one thing worries me. Since Darron is there, Towerwood must be attacking in the Prince’s name, and it is possible that he has Everard with him somehow. You must all make sure that the Prince is not hurt, if he is there.”
The others all gaily agreed, but Lord Strass said: “How are you sure that this is in the Prince’s name? Darron is becoming more Towerwood’s creature every day. Tremath is not there—and he would be, if this were for the Prince.”
“Then we can look for Tremath in reserve, later,” said Robert, “for I am sure. I know Darron and I begin to know Towerwood.”
Then a bugle sounded. To Cecilia, trembling at the thought of a fight, it was like the screech of a slate-pencil and set her teeth on edge. The others were all delighted. Lord Strass threw his cap in the air, James of March shouted “Hurrah!” and mounted his horse, and most of them rode or ran laughing away. Robert was laughing too as he turned to Cecilia, but he stopped when he looked at her.
“You are frightened!” he said, and sounded surprised.
“Yes,” said Cecilia. “Suppose you all get killed.”
“We have little else to look for,” he told her, still not seriously enough for Cecilia. She was almost angry with him for being so lighthearted. What he said next made her really indignant. “But I have arranged for you to be in safety on the hill. You will have a good view when the sun comes up.”
Then he hurried away before she could be angry, and Tom, the false guard of the night before, was left twirling his mustache and smiling at her. “Come, my lady,” he said. “We had best get to our post.”
“We had best not,” said Cecilia. “I have no desire to see the fighting.”
“Ye need not look,” Tom said, “but ye must come. We cannot have ye killed, my lady—being a lady and an Outsider as ye are.”
“I am not really a lady,” said Cecilia. “And why does it worry you that I am an Outsider? It does not worry me.”
The bugle sounded again. Another bugle answered it, a different call, from farther away. Tom did not let Cecilia argue anymore. He picked her up, tossed her over one shoulder, and set off up a steep path beside the caves. Cecilia furiously beat his back with her fists and drummed on his mailed chest with her toes. “Let me down, you beast!”
Later, Cecilia did manage to laugh at herself, but at the time she was too angry. She drummed and protested all the way. It grew suddenly lighter. She realized that the sun had risen and that probably all the outlaws and even Conrad of Towerwood could see her being carted up the hill like a sack of coals. She was furious. Tom, panting like one of the great express engines which ran daily past the farm, tried to explain as he went what Everard had explained to Alex about Outsiders.
“Be quiet. I will not listen,” Cecilia kept saying, but before the top of the hill she had taken in enough of what he said to be frightened. “Put me down!” she said instead. Behind her, far below now, a voice was shouting across the snow. She thought it was Conrad of Towerwood calling on the outlaws to yield. She heard Robert’s voice answering, gaily at first, then angrily. Then, as the bugle on both sides sounded again, they reached the top of the hill and Tom heaved her gently down.
“There,” he said. “Did ye take in what I said of Outsiders?”
“Yes,” said Cecilia meekly. “No one must kill me.”
“Well done, my lady,” said Tom. “And now don’t ye give me more of that about not being no lady. A man’s only to look at ye to see ye are. I reckon ye’d hold your own beside Princess Rosalind herself.”
Cecilia would have protested at any other time, but now she looked down and saw the battle beginning and could think of nothing else. Towerwood had a great army, a huge black block of men and horses, spread out in the snow against the rising sun. Cecilia saw the red gleam of armor and the long banners streaming above them. The outlaws were a quarter the number and nothing like so well armed. Nor did they have a banner among them. They were clustered at the mouth of the valley, with two groups of cavalry up on the low hills to right and left. Cecilia was horrified at how few of them there were.
“They will all be massacred!” she exclaimed to Tom.
“Could be,” he answered soberly. Cecilia could hardly bear it, when he said it. She thought of how happy they had all seemed five minutes ago, and she burst into tears.
Through her tears, she saw the vague galloping mass of Towerwood’s cavalry charging at the outlaws. She saw them met by black whirring arrows which threw some into confusion. Most of them galloped on, though, and found the outlaws’ leveled spears. Then a second wave set out from the enemy’s army, and another. As they came, first one wing of the outlaw-riders, then the other, raced down from the hills to help. The mouth of the valley became an ugly heaving mass of men and horses. Among them was the flash, flash of lifted swords. Shouts, screams, and war cries came horribly up.
Outlaw horses galloped back up the hills on either side. Lord Strass’s horses rallied around into an orderly group, but the side where James of March had gone was all confusion, with enemy cavalry mixed up among the outlaws and always that flash, flash of swords. Cecilia saw a horse rear and its rider fall. She was sure it was James. Rupert Lord Strass rode out in front of his men, with his sword raised, and then charged down again into the fighting. His riders followed and were swallowed up.
Beyond the valley, nearly half Towerwood’s army was still waiting, but as Lord Strass disappeared, Cecilia saw them begin to move. The whole black mass, riders and foot soldiers, came slowly down on the struggling outlaws.
“Oh!” cried Cecilia, and looked hopelessly around for help. She looked behind her, and could have fainted with horror. The hill sloped smoothly down, behind the steep face where the caves were, and below Cecilia, at the bottom of the slope, was another army. It was at least as large as the outlaws’ entire force. Over its twinkling horse and glinting foot flew a long yellow banner with a bear in its midst. Cecilia tugged Tom around and despairingly pointed. “Look!”
Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Tremath,” he said. “Come to make an end on it right enough. Then this is in the Prince’s name.”
“But I don’t think the Prince is here, do you?”
“No,” said Tom. “He bain’t. I been looking. He’s not here, for sure.”
“Well—” Cecilia began, but Tom interrupted.
“My lady, ye stay here. Ye keep hid behind this rock here, see. I must warn ’em. Maybe they spare some men to hold off Tremath. Anyway, I best warn ’em.”
“Very well,” said Cecilia. “Hurry.”
Tom set off down the steep path again, and as he left Cecilia, the second half of Towerwood’s army reached the fighting. They came with a roar and a shriek of trumpets, and in a matter of seconds the outlaws were broken into bands. The valley below was filled with desperate seething battle. Cecilia, rather than watch, turned to look at Tremath.
The new army was coming up the hill toward her. The rider in front under the streaming yellow banner was barely twenty yards away. Cecilia stood on the edge of the cliff with the battle heaving behind her, biting her muff and full in view. She had been so busy watching that she had utterly forgotten to hide. Now it was too late. She could see soldiers pointing at her. She felt them all looking at her, and the force of all those staring eyes was so overpowering that it seemed to be driving her backward over the edge of the cliff. She bent her head against those faces, as she might against a wind, and stumbled toward them for fear of going back.
Commands rang out along the new army. Cecilia looked up to find it had stopped, all except the rider in front, his squire, and the man
who carried the banner. They came on. She heard their horses in the crisp snow, but she could not look up again until the rider spoke.
“Are you one of the Outsiders who claims the coronet? Answer me, girl. I am Humphrey Lord Tremath.”
It was a haughty, angry voice, but when Cecilia looked up, she was pleasantly surprised at the man. He looked agreeably intelligent, and his eyes were gray and honest. It was not the kind of face which would willingly join with Conrad of Towerwood, Cecilia was sure.
“I am an Outsider,” she answered, “but I have no claim whatsoever to the coronet. Neither has my brother. There has been a mistake about that, I assure you—er—my lord.”
“How so? I have been told—”
Cecilia, encouraged by his face, if not his voice, had a sudden idea that she might be of some help to Robert. She ran up to the horse and took hold of Lord Tremath’s armed foot. He looked down at her in amazement. “I think you have been told a great many untruths, Lord Tremath. Tell me, did the Count of Gairne say the Prince was fighting Lord Howeforce here?”
“He did. What of it?”
“It is not true. The Prince is not here, I assure you. Please believe me. The Prince has disappeared and so has my brother. It seems certain that someone has them prisoner—unless you have news of them that I have not.” Cecilia held her breath until Lord Tremath answered. It could so easily be that what she said was quite wrong. After all, she knew so very little really.
Lord Tremath frowned at her. “Are you sure? He was to be leading the troops—the Prince, I mean. I know nothing of your brother.”
“But he is not,” said Cecilia. “It is the Count of Gairne.” She looked back at the valley, to make sure that what she said was still true, but the hill hid most of it from view where she now stood.
“Walk with us, my lady,” said Lord Tremath. “We will see.” He and the two men with him rode slowly to the edge of the cliff. Cecilia went nervously with them, nervous because she was suddenly “my lady” to this man too—it made her afraid that he was planning to keep her in a dungeon—and even more nervous of their horses. They were magnificent heavy warhorses. They had heard the sound of the battle and were jigging and curvetting with excitement. The squire, Cecilia knew, must be a magnificent horseman to keep his horse in check at all, and she was afraid she would be trampled on despite his skill.
She and the riders looked down at the valley. They had come at a rare moment of order. The outlaws were all grouped back against the cliff, archers kneeling, spearmen standing and cavalry wheeling into place on the wings. Robert was riding in front of them all, calling commands. Towerwood’s army had drawn off slightly and filled the open end of the valley. Cecilia recognized Towerwood himself moving among the cavalry, arranging the next onslaught, waving an arm to call up fresh archers from the rear.
“Yes,” said Lord Tremath, “I see Towerwood there, and Darron, and March, and Moyne. There is no sign of the Prince, nor are there more than a few of his men, but they could be in reserve, behind that rise.”
Cecilia was not listening to him, nor was she thinking of their trampling horses any more. She was in tears because it was so plain that the outlaws were penned in against the cliff. The only possible way they could escape was up the way Tom had brought her, or up one or two other paths on the cliff. The paths were like little glaciers of frozen snow, and if any men could manage to climb them, there was Lord Tremath at the top.
“Why did they all laugh so?” she thought. “Because they knew there was no hope?”
Cecilia only remembered where she was, when she heard the squire say: “No, the Prince is not there. You spoke truly, my lady.”
“Then,” said Lord Tremath, “this is not our quarrel. Indeed, Towerwood scarcely needs our help as it is.”
He was right. Towerwood’s army was moving in again to smash the remaining outlaws against the cliff face.
“But,” Cecilia cried out, “if you stay here you will be cutting them off in the rear.”
“That was our intention, my lady,” answered Lord Tremath. “Come.” He and the squire and the standard-bearer turned their eager horses and rode away, not very far, only a few yards from the cliff edge. Lord Tremath beckoned to Cecilia. “You must stay with us, my lady,” he said.
Cecilia did not want to leave the cliff edge. She made up her mind to stay. Then Towerwood’s army threw itself on the outlaws, and it was like the sea breaking on a reef in a froth of swords and spears and rearing horses. Cecilia turned and ran toward Lord Tremath.
Almost as soon as she reached him, there was a clatter of hooves at the cliff face, and a foaming blue roan horse hurled itself scrambling onto the slope. There, Robert, on its back, reined in so hard that man and beast nearly toppled back over the cliff edge. After him came Rupert Lord Strass with James of March lying hanging over his saddle-bow. He too reined in as he saw Lord Tremath. Then to Cecilia’s astonishment, outlaws in Hornet livery appeared all along the cliff edge, riding and on foot. Most of them were laughing as they appeared, but the sight of Lord Tremath stopped them where they stood. And from the waiting Tremath troops came a long burring of voices as the soldiers there realized that Towerwood and his allies were down in the valley fighting one another.
Part III
RIDERS BY DAY
Chapter 1
Courcys
Alex and Cecilia were missed at Arnforth Hall fairly early on, but the Courcys were the kind of family which only became united for action at the latest possible moment. Nothing was done for hours.
Susannah was the first to see that Alex and Cecilia were not coming. She had been waiting and watching all morning, for, at last, she had made up her mind that she would apologize to Alex. She would lick his boots if necessary. It had dawned on her, in that awful moment when the Wild Rider had suddenly hurled himself into the bay, that her remarks really hurt Alex’s feelings. And when Alex and Cecilia did not come back to the farm, she was sure she had hurt them once too much. So, on the pretext of decorating the hall, she hung about near the front door. She saw Old John arrive in the trap and drive round to the servants’ entrance. She ran round there as soon as she could, and saw Cecilia’s bandbox and Alex’s bag. Old John had gone by the time she realized that Alex and Cecilia were not there too.
She waited another hour. The bell rang for the hasty muddled lunch they always had the day of a party. Alex and Cecilia always came to this lunch. Susannah ran into the ballroom, all dirty pinafore and wild hair. Harry was there with Egbert, both on the same stepladder, trying to hang up a green paper dragon.
“Harry, Egbert, did you know Cecilia and Alex had not come yet?”
Harry, whose conscience was troubling him about the Hornbys even more than Susannah’s, nearly fell off the stepladder. He saved himself by using Egbert, and Egbert, who had a soft spot for Cecilia, was not balanced either. Between them, they tore down the paper dragon.
“Go away, Susannah!” Harry said.
“Have it all to do again, now, what?” said Egbert.
Susannah tried her poetic sister Letitia after lunch, but Letitia, much smeared with ink, was composing rhymed mottoes for each of the guests and was not really attending. “Could I rhyme Cecilia with Ophelia, dear?” Lavinia and Emily, who were helping her, thought not. Susannah clapped her hands to her face and ran away to Charlotte.
“Ophelia was drowned!” she told Charlotte, too worried to make her idea plain.
“I know, dear.” Charlotte was already busy with her clothes, because, of course, her fiancé Charles Phelps was to be at the party.
By this time, most of the preparations were done. Martin came out of the billiard room where he had been avoiding work. Susannah caught him before he could vanish somewhere else. “Alex and Cecilia are not here yet.”
He was the one person who took her seriously. “Really? Standing on their dignity probably. After all, they must have some. Don’t worry, though. That old father of theirs will send them along.”
“But Mr.
Hornby has gone to London for Father.”
“So he has.” Martin realized that if he went on attending to Susannah, she would be sending him to the farm to look. He began to make off. “Let me know if they do not come in the next hour.”
This was a clever move, because Susannah was being dressed when the hour was up. She escaped though, because there was a crisis about Charlotte’s hair and Susannah was forgotten. With her own hair in curl-papers and her pretty white dress unhooked, Susannah ran down to the hall and the ballroom, and then to find Martin. Martin had vanished, of course, but she found Harry, already dressed, prowling on a wide landing.
“What is it, Susannah? They still have not come, have they?”
“No,” she said. “They have not. Harry, I think it is my fault.”
“No,” he said. “It’s mine. You can set yourself at ease, Susannah. If they are not here in half an hour I shall have to see Father about it.”
Susannah could not wait so long. A quarter of an hour later, when she was properly dressed, she went to her mother and tried to explain. Lady Courcy, fond though she was of Susannah, could not make head or tail of it. Nor could she rid herself of a sneaking feeling that none of it was very important. But her poor Susannah seemed so distressed that she agreed to talk to Sir Edmund about it. Anyway, the guests were beginning to arrive and she needed to hurry him up.
Sir Edmund Courcy, who was just like Martin, except that he took his hands out of his pockets to hunt, was of course not nearly dressed. Lady Courcy tried to frighten him into hurrying, as she always did, and it seemed to her that a good way to frighten him was to explain about Susannah.
“And those little Hornbys have not arrived. I cannot think what has happened. My poor Susannah is terribly upset, dear, and has some odd idea that it is her fault they have not come.”