*CHAPTER XI.*
*BANBURY CAKES.*
At Oxford, there was expectation threading the routine of Court life.The fine light of devotion to lost causes--causes lost because they wereever too high for mean folks' understanding--had cradled this good city.Chivalry, the clean heart and the ruddy, fervid hope, had built herwonderland of colleges and groves and pleasant streets. Men oflearning, of passionate fervour for the things beyond, had lived anddied here; and such men leave about the place of their bodily sojourn aliving presence that no clash of arms, no mire of human jealousies, canovercome.
For this reason, all Oxford awaited the coming of the Metcalfs. They inthe north--men well content, not long ago, to follow field-sports andthe plough--were different in breed and habits from these folk in thecomely city. But, in the matters that touch dull workaday into a livingflame, they were of the same company--men who hoped, this side or theother of the veil, to see the Standard floating high above life'spettiness. And, for this reason, Oxford waited the Metcalfs' comingwith an expectancy that was oddly vivid. The gamesters of the Courtwagered heavily as to the hour of their arrival. Grave dons, whohappened to be interested in the mathematics more in favour at thesister University, drew maps of the route from Banbury to York,calculated the speed of messengers spurring at the gallop north, and thereturn pace of riders coming south on horses none too fresh. These hadrecourse to algebra, which seemed only to entangle the argument themore.
Queen Henrietta Maria and the ladies of the Court made no calculations.Michael and Christopher were here, big, wind-browned men, who seemedunaware that they had done anything worth praise; and the Queen, withher French keenness of vision, her late-learned English view of life,knew that two gentlemen had come to Oxford, men made in the image ofchivalry, ready to live or die with gallantry.
So the two brothers were spoiled outrageously, until, on the second day,Kit was despatched alone to Lathom House in Lancashire.
"Take all the quieter byways," said Rupert, as he saw him get to saddle."Tell the Lady of Latham to hold out a little longer. And tell her fromme, _Well done_!"
Rupert sighed as he turned away. He was fretting to be at Shrewsbury,raising his company for the relief of York; but he was kept in Oxfordhere by one of those interminable intrigues which had hampered him formonths past. The older men whose counsel the King trusted--Culpepper,Hyde, and the rest--were jealous of Rupert's conspicuous genius forwarfare. The younger men were jealous of the grace--a grace clean-cut,not foppish, resolute--which endeared him to the women of the Court. Hewas accused of treachery at Bristol, of selling his honour for a sum ofgold; it was said that he dallied here in Oxford for reasons known tothe Duchess of Richmond. No lie was too gross to put in circulation, byhint, or question, or deft innuendo. Day by day, hour by hour, men weredropping poison into the King's ear and the Queen's; and at theCouncils, such as this that kept him here just now, he saw across thetable the faces of men obstinately opposed to him. Whatever hesuggested was wrong because he was the spokesman; whatever was in bluntcontradiction to his view of the campaign was applauded. The Duke ofRichmond, his friend and ally, was with him, and one or two younger menwho had no gift of speech in these times of stress. For the rest, he wasalone, a man of action, with his back to the wall in a battle oftongues.
He carried himself well enough even to-day, when the meeting was morestormy than usual. His dignity was not a cloak, but an inbred strengththat seemed to grow by contact with adversity.
"So, gentlemen," he said, at the close of the Council, "you have hadyour way so far as talk goes. Now I have mine. I hold a commissionfrom the King to raise forces for the relief of sundry garrisons. Ishall relieve those garrisons in my own way. Meanwhile, you may holdCouncils without number, but I would recommend tennis to you as ahealthier pastime."
They watched him go. "The d--d young thoroughbred!" splutteredCulpepper. "We'll get a bit between his teeth, one of these days, andteach him discipline."
Rupert made his way across the High Street, a curious soreness at hisheart. Discipline? He had learned it in his teens--the self-restraint,the gift of taking blows and giving them with equal zest. But this newschool he was passing through was harsh, unlovely. There was York,waiting for relief; there was Lathom House, defended with courageunbelievable by Lady Derby and a handful of hard-bitten men; there weretwenty manors holding out in hope of the succouring cavalry who did notcome; and he was kept here to attend a Council, to listen to veiledjealousy and derision, when all he asked for was a horse under him andgrace to gather a few thousand men.
As he neared Christ Church, intent on seeking audience of the King, andstating frankly his own view of his enemies, he encountered MichaelMetcalf crossing hurriedly from a side street.
"Well, sir?" he asked, with a sense of friendship at sight of a man soobviously free of guile. "Have they done wagering in Oxford as to thehour your kinsmen ride in?"
"I think the play runs even faster. Some learned dons have brought theheavy guns of algebra to bear on it, and all the town is waiting fortheir answer to the riddle."
"All's topsy-turvy," laughed the Prince. "If dons have taken to givingthe odds on a horserace, where will Oxford end? But you were hurrying,and I detain you."
Michael explained that the King had commanded his presence at theDeanery; and the other, after a brief farewell, turned on his heel.After all, his own business with the King could wait until this reigningfavourite in Oxford had had his audience.
Just across the way was Merton, where the Queen's lodging was. Ruperthad had his fill of disillusion and captivity here in the loyal city; hewas human, and could not hide for ever his heartache to be out anddoing, lest it ate inward with corrosion. He crossed to Merton, askedfor the Queen, and was told that she had gone out a half-hour since totake the air. The Duchess of Richmond was within, he learned in answerto a second query.
The Duchess was stooping over a table when he was announced. She addeda few quick strokes to the work she was engaged on, then rose.
"You, my Prince?" she said, with frank welcome. "You come from theCouncil? I hoped that you would come. Were they as always?"
"My lord Cottington's gout was at its worst, and he in the same mood asthe disease. Digby's mouth was more like a Cupid's bow than ever, andhe simpered well-groomed impertinences. How I loathe them, Duchess."
"You would."
She turned for a moment to the window, looked out on the May sunlightand the dancing leaves. All the vigour of their loyalty to the King--herhusband's and her own--all the dreams they had shared of monarchy secureagain, and rebellion trampled underfoot, were summed up in Rupert'sperson. He had done so much already; he was resolute to go forward withthe doing, if the curs of scandal and low intrigue would cease snappingat his heels.
She turned from the window. "My Prince," she said, touching his armwith the grace that gives courage to a man, "you do well to come herefor sanctuary between the pauses of the battle. If you knew what myhusband says of you, if you guessed the many prayers I send you----"
The keen, happy smile broke through from boyhood's days. "Duchess," hesaid very simply, "I am well rewarded. What were you busy about when Iintruded?"
She showed him her handiwork. "One must do something these dull days,"she explained, "and it was you who taught me this new art of etching. AmI an apt pupil?"
Rupert looked at the work with some astonishment. The art was in itsinfancy, and difficult; yet she had done very well, a few cruditiesapart. The etching showed a kingfisher, triumphant on a rock set inmidstream; at its feet lay a half-eaten grayling.
"It is not good art, because it is an allegory," she explained, with thelaughter that had been oftener heard before the troubled days arrived."You, my Prince, are the kingfisher, and the grayling the dull-wittedfish named Parliament."
At the Deanery Michael was in audience with the King, whose imaginationhad been taken captive by the exploits o
f the Riding Metcalfs, by thestir and wonderment there was about the city touching the exact hour oftheir coming. Michael, because wind and hazard in the open had bredhim, carried himself with dignity, with a reverence rather hinted atthan shown, with flashes of humour that peeped through the high gravityof this audience. He explained the wagering there was that York wouldbe relieved, spoke of the magic Rupert's name had in the north. At theend of the half-hour the King's face was younger by ten years. Thedistrust of his nephew, wearing faith away as dropping water wears arock, was gone. Here, by God's grace, was a gentleman who had no liesat command, no private grudge to serve. It was sure, when Michael tookhis farewell, that the commission to raise forces for the relief of Yorkwould not be cancelled.
The King called him back, bade him wait until he had penned a letter.The letter--written with the sense that his good angel was looking overhis shoulder, as Charles felt always when his heart was free--was asimple message to his wife. He had not seen her for a day, and wasdesolate. He could not spare time to cross the little grove betweenthis Merton, because he had letters still unanswered but hoped to supthere later in the day. He was a fine lover, whether of Church, orState, or the wife who was lavender and heartsease to him; and, afterall, they are three kingly qualities.
He sealed the letter. "You will be so good as to deliver it into theQueen's hand, Mr. Metcalf; there may be an answer you will bring."
Michael, when he knocked at the gate of Merton, was told the Queen wasabroad. He said that he would wait for her return; and, when thejanitor was disposed to question, he added that he came direct from theKing, and, if he doubted it, he would pitch him neck and crop into thestreet. He was admitted; for the janitor, though sturdy, was six inchesshorter.
When he came into the room--that would have been gloomy between itspanelled walls, if it had not been for the sunlight flooding it withgold and amber--he saw Rupert and the Duchess of Richmond standing nearthe window. Sharp, like an east wind from Knaresborough, where he hadmarked time by dalliance with pretty women, he heard Miss Bingham'svoice as she bade him, when he came to Oxford, ask Rupert how theDuchess of Richmond fared.
Michael did not need to ask. With a clean heart and a conscience aseasy as is permitted to most men, he saw these two as they were--loyalwoman helping loyal man to bind the wounds that inaction and the rust ofjealousy had cankered.
"By your leave," he said, "I have a letter for the Queen."
"It will be safe in my hands, Mr. Metcalf."
The Prince was surprised by the other's gravity, his air of perplexity."I would trust all I have to you," said Michael, "all that is my own.But this letter is the King's, and he bade me give it to the Queenherself. I can do no less, believe me."
"Sir," said Rupert coldly, "you risk your whole advantage here atCourt--make me your enemy for life, perhaps--because you stand on apunctilio the King himself would not ask from you."
The Duchess watched the faces of these men. Michael had been thelaughter-maker in the midst of disastrous days; his gift of story, hisodd susceptibility to the influence of twenty pairs of bright eyes in aday, had made him a prime favourite. Now he was as hard andsimple-minded as his brother Christopher. She approved the man in hisnew guise.
"I stand on the strict command the King gave me," said Michael quietly."Sir, how could a man do otherwise?"
Rupert turned suddenly. "Duchess," he said, "we stand in the presenceof a man. I have tried him. And it always clears the air, afterCouncils and what not, to hear the north wind sing. I wish your clanwould hurry to the muster, sir, if they're all as firm as you are forthe King."
An hour later the Queen returned, read the letter, penned a hastyanswer. "Ah, it is so good to see you, Monsieur Metcalf, so good! Youhave the laughter ready always--it is so good to laugh! There is--whatyou call it?--too much salt in tears, and tears, they fall so quick ifone allows it. Now, you will tell me--before you take my letter--whendoes your big company ride in? Some say to-day, others two, three dayslater. For myself, I want to see your tall men come. They will makelight the King's heart--and he so _triste_--ah, _croyez-vous_ that he is_triste_!"
With her quick play of hands and features, her pretty broken English,the air of strength and constancy that underlay her charm, the Queentouched Michael with that fire of pity, admiration, selfless love, whichnever afterwards can be forgotten. She had bidden him laugh, lest forher part she cried. So he made a jest of this ride of the Metcalfssouth. He drew pictures, quick, ludicrous pictures, of men calculatingthis queer game of six-score men travelling fast as horseflesh couldbring them to the loyal city. He explained that he alone had the answerto the riddle, because he was unhampered by Christopher's obstinacy onthe one hand, by the grave algebra of dons on the other. All Oxford hadbeen obsessed by the furious gallop of horsemen north between stage andstage. They could reach York in fifteen hours. It was the returnjourney, of units gathering into companies, of companies resting theirhorses when need compelled, that fixed the coming of the White Horsesinto Oxford. And the last of these--the one mustered nearest York--wasof necessity the one that guided the hour of coming.
In the north ride, speed and road-dust under the gallop; in the cannymuster toward the south, a pace of tiresome slowness.
"How long since we came in, Christopher and I?" asked Michael.
"Six days," said Rupert. "They's been leaden days for me, and so Icounted them."
"Then look for our folk to-morrow, somewhere between dawn and sunset."
On the northern road, beyond Banbury, there had been a steady muster ofthe Metcalfs day by day. Blake, the night-rider, watched the incoming ofthese northern men--each day a score of them, big on their whitehorses--with wonder and a keen delight. Those already mustered were sosure of the next day's company; and these, when they rode in, carriedthe same air of buoyancy, of man-like hardihood and child-like trust.
A new, big dream was stirring round Blake's heart. Six days ago he hadlain awake and heard two sentries talk of Miss Bingham, of the coquetryshe practised still in Knaresborough, and his old wound had opened. Hehad staunched the bleeding with prompt skill; and now his heart wasaching, not for fripperies over and done with, but for the thing thatOxford was to see, if all went well. He had ridden out to spur thefirst Metcalf forward with his message to the north. He would bringthis gallant company into the city--he, small of body, used only to theplaudits of barn-owls and farmhouse dogs as he galloped over hill anddale on lonely errands--he would come into the full sunlight of Oxford'sHigh Street with the stalwarts he had gathered in.
There's no stimulus so fine as a dream nurtured in good soil. Blakewent foraging by day, taking his share of other camp work, too; and,when his sleep was earned o' nights, he lay watching the stars insteadand pictured this good entry into Oxford. The dream sufficed him; and,unless a man can feel the dream suffices, he might as well go chewingpasture-grass with other sleepy cattle.
On the sixth evening, when a grey heat-mist was hiding the sun an hourbefore his time, the last of the Metcalfs came in, the old Squire ofNappa at their head. And Blake put a question to the Squire, after theyhad known each other half an hour--a question that none of the othershad known how to answer, though he had asked it often. "We have hadexcursions and alarms from Banbury, sir--a few skirmishes that taughtthem the cost of too great inquisitiveness--and I asked your folk why wegathered here, instead of skirting a town so pestilent."
"They did not tell you," chuckled the Squire, "because they could not,sir. I am used to asking for obedience. My lads learn the reason lateron. But you shall know. I shall never forget, Mr. Blake, that it wasyou who brought me in my old age to the rarest frolic I ever took partin."
He explained, with a jollity almost boyish, that Banbury was notoriousin Northern gossip as a hotbed of disloyalty, its folk ever on the watchto vex and hinder Oxford. So he proposed to sweep the town as clean asmight be before riding forward.
Soon after dawn the next day, men and horses rested, they
set about theenterprise. The sentry posted furthest north of Banbury ran back togive word that the camp was astir; the soldiers and townsmen, notknowing what was in the mind of this company that had been gathering onits borders these six days past, got to arms and waited. And then theyheard a roar, as it were of musketry, as the Metcalfs gave theirrally-call of "A Mecca for the King!"
There was no withstanding these men. They had more than bulk and goodhorses at their service. The steadfastness that had brought them south,the zeal that was like wine in their veins, made them one resistlesswhole that swept the street. Then they turned about, swept back again,took blows and gave them. The Banbury men were stubborn. They took thefootman's privilege, when matched against cavalry, of trying to stab thehorses; but the Metcalfs loved the white horses a little better thanthemselves, and those who made an essay of the kind repented it.
At the end of it Squire Metcalf had Banbury at command. "We canbreakfast now, friends," he said, the sweat streaming from his jollyface. "I told you we could well afford to wait."
His happy-go-lucky prophecy found quick fulfilment. Not only was theplace rich in the usual good food dear to the Puritans, but it happenedthat the wives of the town had baked overnight a plentiful supply of thecakes which were to give Banbury its enduring fame. "They're goodcakes," laughed the Squire of Nappa. "Eh, lads, if only Banbury loyaltyhad the same crisp flavour!"