*CHAPTER XV.*
*TWO JOLLY PURITANS.*
Three days later Rupert came in, after seeing to the needs of Bolton.He came for rest, before pushing on to York, he asserted; but his way ofrecreation, here as elsewhere, was to set about the reconstruction ofbattered walls. Christopher Metcalf, raw not long ago from Yoredale,wondered, as he supped with them that night, why he was privileged tosit at meat with these gentles who had gone through fire and sword,whose attire was muddied and bloodstained, for the most part, but whokept the fire of loyalty like a grace that went before and after themeat they ate hungrily. He was puzzled that Lord Derby toasted him,with the smile his own father might have given him--was bewildered whenthe men rose to the toast with a joyous roar.
"The young Mecca for the King--the White Knight for the King!"
All he had dreamed in Yoredale was in the doing here. Kit wasunsteadied by it, as if wine were mounting to his head.
"My thanks, gentlemen," he said. "Be pleased to nickname me. For mypart, I feel like the ass Michael rode to York--patient andlong-suffering, but no knight at all."
"How did Michael ride to York?" asked Derby, with a gust of laughter.
So then Kit told the tale, losing his diffidence and pointing thenarrative with dry, upland humour.
"Good, Mr. Metcalf," said Lady Derby. "I have not laughed since my lordrode out, until to-day. Where is this Michael who rode to York?"
"With the rest of the good Metcalfs," said Rupert. "I left the wholefine brood to guard Lathom from without. They go north with me in twodays' time. You shall see them--six-score on their white horses." Ashadow crossed his face; the so-called failing of the Stuart temperamentwas his, and he counted each man lost as a brother to be mourned for.
"Why the cloud on your face, Prince?" asked Lady Derby.
"There are only five-score now. When we counted our dead at Bolton,there were some gallant Metcalfs lying face upward to their God."
A sickness came to Christopher. He turned aside, and longed for themother who had sheltered his young days. Bloodshed and wounds he hadforeseen; but to his boy's view of life, it seemed incredible that anyof the jolly Yoredale clan should die--should go out for ever, beyondreach of hand-grip.
"Was my father with the slain--or Michael?" he asked by and by.
"Neither, lad." Rupert came and touched him on the arm. "Oh, I know, Iknow! The pity of one's dead--and yet their glory--it is all a muddle,this affair of war."
It was on the second morning afterwards, while Rupert was getting hisarmy in readiness for the march on York, that Lady Derby saw Christopherstanding apart, the new sadness in his face.
"You are thinking of your dead?" she said, in her brisk, imperative way."Laddie, do you not guess that the dead are thinking, too, of you?"
"They rest where they lie," he said, stubborn in his grief.
"Oh, go to kirk more often, and learn that they know more than we do.These twenty Yoredale men, they are not dead--they watch you from theHeights."
"My lady," said Christopher, with a smile made up of weariness, "I am aplain man of my hands, like all my folk. I have no gift for dreams."
"Nor I," she agreed. "When wounds conquer all your pride ofstrength--when you are laid by, and weak as a little child--ask yourselfif I spoke dreams or living truth."
He glanced once at her. There was an odd look about her, a light in hereyes that he could not understand.
He forgot it all when he joined his folk to ride behind Rupert for therelief of York. The high adventure was in front, like a good fox, andhis thoughts were all of hazard and keen blows. They crossed theLancashire border; and, when Kit learned that the route lay throughSkipton-in-Craven, his heart warmed to the skirmish that his fancypainted. He was looking backward to that crashing fight--the first ofhis life--when the White Horsemen drove through the Roundhead gun-convoyand swirled down to battle in the High Street. He was looking forward,as a boy does, to a resurrection of that fight, under the likeconditions.
Instead, he found the business of market-day in full swing. The Castlewas silent. Lambert's guns, away on Cock Hill, were dumb. Farmers wereselling ewes and cattle, were standing at inn doors, wind and wine ofthe country in their honest faces.
"What is all this?" asked Rupert of a jolly countryman.
"Skipton Fair--naught more or less. There's a two days' truce, or somesuch moonshine, while either side go burying their dead. For my part,I've sold three heifers, and sold 'em well. I'm content."
Rupert had had in mind to go into the Castle, and snatch a meal and anhour of leisure there while he talked with the Governor. He could notdo it now. Punctilio--the word spelt honesty to him--forbade it. Heglanced about and saw Kit close beside him.
"Knock at the gate, Mr. Metcalf, and bid Sir John Mallory come out andtalk with me."
The drawbridge was down in accordance with the truce, and Kit clatteredover it on his white horse. He knocked at the gate, and sent PrinceRupert's message forward. In a little while Mallory came out, apleasant gentleman, built for hard riding and all field sports, whomProvidence had entrusted with this do-nothing, lazy business of sittingbehind walls besieged.
"The Prince commands you, Sir John," said Kit, with great precision.
Formality was ended on the instant; for Mallory clapped him on theshoulder and laughed like a boy let loose for play. "By the Lord Harry,I'm glad to get out of doors--and for Rupert, of all men."
In the great sweep of roadway that mounted to the Castle gate--the grey,comely church beside it--Prince Rupert met Mallory with handoutstretched.
"Well done, friend! If it had not been a day of truce, I had hoped tocome indoors and crack a bottle with you. As matters stand, we hope toslake our thirst at a more convenient time."
"There's no hindrance, your Highness. Lambert, who besieges us, isdoubtless entertaining friends at the Quaker meeting-house in this goodtown. Why should you not accept the warmer sort of hospitality weCavaliers affect?"
"Oh, a whim. I can tell you in the open here--No Man's Ground--what Icame to tell you. It would not be fair to hide my news behind closedgates."
Mallory glanced sharply at him. Rupert's fury in attack, his relentlessgallop through one battle after another---the man's whole record--hadnot prepared him for this waywardness of scruple. The next momentRupert's face was keen and hard.
"We ride for York, Sir John," he said, "and I give you the same errand Ishall give Knaresborough's garrison later on. Keep Lambert busy. Sortietill these Roundheads have no rest, day or night. Turn siege intoattack. The Lady of Lathom has taught us what a slender garrison maydo."
"Does she hold out still?" asked the other eagerly. "We have so littlenews these days."
"She has captured twenty-seven standards, friend, and is rebuilding herwalls in preparation for the next siege."
"God be thanked!" said Sir John, lifting his hat. "There are so fewgreat ladies in our midst."
"And so few great gentlemen, Mallory. Nay, friend, do not reddenbecause I praise you to your face. We know Skipton's story."
Lambert was not at the Quakers' meeting-house, as it chanced. He was onCock Hill, passing the time of inaction away by looking down on theCastle that had flouted him so often. His thrifty mind was busy withnew methods of attack, when he saw Rupert with his advance-guard come upthe High Street. The light--a strong sun beating down through heavyrain-clouds---showed a clear picture of the horsemen. By the carriage oftheir heads, by the way they sat their horses, Lambert knew them forCavaliers. As he was puzzling out the matter--loth to doubt Sir JohnMallory's good faith--a man of the town came running up.
"The truce is broken, Captain Lambert. Here's a rogue withlove-locks--they say he's Prince Rupert--come with a press of horsemen.He's talking with Sir John Mallory fair in front of the Castle gateway."
Lambert's temper fired. What he had seen accorded with the townsman'sview. Something quixotic in the man'
s nature, that always waited on hisunguarded moments, bade him go down and ask the meaning of it all. Itseemed to him that his faith in all men would go, root and branch, ifSir John Mallory were indeed less than a simple, upright gentleman. Hereached the High Street, and made his way through the press of soldieryand townsfolk till he reached the wide space, in front of church andCastle, where the Prince stood with Mallory.
"Sir John," he said very coldly, "I come to ask if you break truce byfree will or compulsion."
"By compulsion, sir," said Rupert, with a quick smile. "I ride too fastfor knowledge of each town's days of truce. Sir John here came out atmy request, to talk with me. You are Captain Lambert, I take it? Ah,we have heard of you--have heard matters to your credit, if you willpermit an adversary so much freedom."
Lambert yielded a little to the other's easy charm; but it was plainthat the grievance rankled still.
"Well, then, I'll give you punctilio for punctilio, sir," went onRupert. "The King's needs are urgent I could not wait--truce or no, Ihad to give my orders to Sir John here. To be precise, I urged him toharry you unceasingly. I told him that we were pressing forward to therelief of York. Is honour satisfied? If not, name a convenient hour forhostilities to open. My men are here. Yours are on the hill yonder,where your guns look down on us."
Lambert's humour, deep-hidden, was touched at last. "Press on to York,by your leave. Mallory, I'm in your debt. I doubted your good faithjust now."
"That was unwise, Lambert. Eh, man, the troubled days will soon beended--then, if we're both alive, come sup with me as of old."
Kit, when they took the road again, was bewildered a little by theshifting issues of this madness known as civil war. The Prince,Lambert, and Sir John--three men conspicuously survivals from Crusadingdays--had talked in the High Street of honour and punctilio---had shownthe extreme courtesy of knights prepared to tilt against each other inthe ring at any moment---and all this with the assault of Bolton and thered havoc of it scarcely ended, with rough fights ahead, and York'sgarrison in piteous need of succour.
"Why so moody, li'le Christopher?" asked Michael, riding at hisbrother's bridle-hand.
"I fancied war was simple, and I'm losing myself among the mists,somehow."
"An old trick of yours. Mistress Joan taught it you. There was a lady,too, in Knaresborough, who gave you lessons in the pastime."
"But this Captain Lambert is besieging Skipton, and Mallory defends it,and one asks the other to sup with him when the affair is over. That isnot stark fighting, Michael."
"Why not, lad? Lambert's cannon will thunder just as merrily when thetruce is ended. The world jogs after that fashion."
It was when they were pressing on to York the next day--after a briefnight's sleep in the open and a breakfast captured by each man as besthe could--that the Prince rode back to the white company of horses thatcarried the Metcalf clan. He reined about on finding Michael.
"You found your way into York once for me, sir. You will do it a secondtime. Bid them be ready. Tell them we travel as quickly as may be, andsorties from their three main gates, when the moment comes, will be ofservice."
"My thanks for the errand. May I ask a second boon, your Highness?"
"Oh, I think one would grant you anything in reason. A man with yourmerry eyes is privileged."
"I had a sutler's donkey with me in the first attempt. She brought meluck, undoubtedly--we had the like temperament, she and I--but we losther during these forced marches. Can I have Christopher here to sharethe venture?"
Kit reddened, then laughed the jest aside. And the Prince, as he lookedat these two, so dissimilar and yet so full of comradeship, thought ofhis own brother Maurice, and wished that he were here.
"Ay, take him with you," he said; "he will steady your venture. And,gentlemen, take your route at once."
"You heard what he said?" asked Christopher, after the Prince hadspurred forward to the main body. "I shall steady your venture.There's a counter for your talk of donkeys, Michael."
Michael said nothing. As one who knew his brother's weakness, he waitedtill they were well on their way to York, and had reached a finger-postwhere four cross-roads met.
"We might go by way of Ripley," he hazarded, pointing to the left-handroad.
"Why, yes," said Kit unguardedly. "It is the nearest way, and the roadbetter--
"The road even viler, and the distance a league more. I said we _might_take the Ripley way. In sober earnest, we go wide of Mistress Joan."
"Who spoke of Joan Grant?"
"Your cheeks, lad, and the note in your voice. Nay, no heat. D'ye thinkthe Prince gave us this venture for you to go standing under yon Ripleycasement, sighing for the moon that lives behind it? York would berelieved and all over, before I steadied you."
"You've no heart, Michael."
"None, lad; and I'm free of trouble, by that token."
And Kit, the young fire in his veins, did not know that Michael wasjesting at the grave of his own hopes. That upper chamber--the look ofMistress Joan, her pride and slenderness--were matters that had piercedthe light surface of his life, once for all.
"The York country was eaten bare when I last went through it," he said,after they had ridden a league in silence. "It will be emptier now.Best snatch a meal at the tavern here, Kit, while we have the chance.Our wits will need feeding if we're to find our way into York."
They found a cheery host, a table well spread with cold meats. When thehost returned with wine, ordered hastily, he glanced at his guests withan air that was half humorous and half secretive.
"Here is the wine, Mr. Metcalf," he said--"the best of a good cellar,though I say it."
"Eh?" drawled Michael, always most indolent when surprised. "You knowmy name, it seems."
"Well, sir, if two big, lusty gentry choose to come riding two whitehorses--and all the Plain o' York ringing with news of the RidingMetcalfs--small blame to me if I guessed your quality. I'm a King'sman, too."
"You'd best prove it quickly," said Michael, with a gentle laugh. "Thebusiness we ride on asks for sacrifice, and a fat host or two would notbe missed."
"I am asking to prove it." The way of the man, the jolly red of hisface, and the eyes that were clear as honesty, did not admit of doubt."In the little room across the passage there are three crop-headedPuritans dining--dining well, and I grudge 'em every mouthful. They'renot ashamed to take their liquor, too; and whether 'twas that, orwhether they fancied I was as slow-witted as I seemed, they babbled ofwhat was in the doing."
"I always had the luck," said Michael impassively. "Had they thepassword through the ranks besieging York?"
"Ay, that; and more. They had papers with them; one was drying them atthe fire, after the late storm o' rain that had run into his pocket, andit seemed they were come with orders for the siege. I should say theywere high in office with the Puritans, for they carried the threesourest faces I've seen since I was breeked."
"The papers can wait. What was the password, host?"
"_Idolatry_. It seemed a heathenish word, and I remembered it."
"Good," laughed Michael. "To-morrow it will be Mariolatry, doubtless,and Red Rome on the next day. How these folk love a gibe at HisMajesty's sound Churchmanship! They carry papers, you say? It is alldiverting, host. My brother here will not admit that luck, pure andsimple, is a fine horse to ride. Kit, we must see that little roomacross the passage."
Michael got to his feet, finished his wine in three leisurely gulps,then moved to the closed door, which he opened without ceremony. Thethree Parliament men had their heads together at the board, and one wasemphasising an argument by drumming with a forefinger on the papersspread before them. They turned sharply as the door opened, and reachedout for their weapons when they saw Michael step into the room, followedby a lesser giant.
"They turned sharply as the door opened, and reached outfor their weapons."]
"_Idolatry_, friends," said Michael suavely.
The three looked at each other with puzzled question. These strangerswore their hair in the fashion dear to Cavaliers, and they carried anintangible air that suggested lightness of spirit.
"You have the password," said one; "but your fashion is the fashion ofBelial's sons. What would you?"
"We come with full powers to claim your papers and to do your errandwith the forces now besieging York. To be candid, you are suspect ofeating more and drinking more than sober Parliament men should--and,faith, your crowded table here bears out the scandal."
The three flushed guiltily, then gathered the dourness that stood tothem for strength; and Kit wondered what was passing through hisbrother's nimble brain.
"Your credentials," snapped the one who seemed to be leader of thethree.
Michael, glancing round the board, saw a great pasty, with the mincemeatshowing through where the knife had cut it. "Oh, my own password is_Christmas-pie_, friends! I encountered the dish at Banbury, and agreat uproar followed when my brother gave it the true name."
And now the Roundheads knew that they were being played with. So greatwas their party's abhorrence of anything which savoured of the Mass,that a dish, pleasant in itself, had long since grown to be ashibboleth.
The first man raised a pistol--a weapon that seemed out of keeping withhis preacher's garb--but Kit, longing for action instead of all thisplay of words, ran in with a jolly laugh, lifted his man high, as onelifts a child in frolic, and let him drop. The pistol fell, too, and thetrigger snapped; but the Parliament man, however strong his trust inProvidence might be, had forgotten Cromwell's other maxim--that heshould keep his powder dry.
Michael's voice was very gentle. "I said we came with full powers. Itwould be wiser not to play with fire. Indeed, we do not wish you ill,and, in proof of friendship, we are willing to change clothes with you."
A little later Michael and Christopher came out, locking the door behindthem. They asked the astonished host for scissors, and bade him cliptheir locks as close as he could contrive without knowledge of thebarber's art. And it was odd that these two, who six months ago hadbeen close-cropped in Yoredale, resented the loss of the lovelocks theyhad grown in deference to fashion. To them it seemed as if they werelosing the badge of loyalty, as if the fat host played Delilah to theirSamson.
"Keep that easy carriage of your bodies down, gentles, if you're bent onplay-acting," said Boniface, with a cheery grin.
"How should we walk, then?"
"With a humble stoop, sir--a very humble stoop--that was how the threeParliament men came in and asked for the best victuals I could give'em."
Michael's laugh was easy-going; but, for all that, his orders wereprecise and sharp. Their horses, of the tell-tale white, were to bestabled securely out of eyeshot, and well tended until called for. Heand Kit would ride out on the pick of the three Roundhead cattle.
"As for that, sir, there's no pick, in a manner of speaking. They rodein on the sorriest jades I ever saw at a horse-fair."
"We'll take the rough luck with the smooth."
Yet even Michael grew snappish when he saw the steeds they had to ride.It was only when Kit laughed consumedly at sight of them that herecovered his good humour.
"After all, sir," suggested Boniface, "it proves the loyalty of thecountry hereabouts. They couldn't get decent horseflesh, for love ormoney. Our folk would only sell them stuff ready for the knacker'syard."
"That has a pleasant sound for us, with all between this and York totravel."
"Take two o' my beasts, gentles, if there's haste. You're croppedenough, and in quiet clothes enough, to ride good horses--alwaysgranting their colour doesn't happen to be white. As for these two o'mine, one is a roan, t'other a darkish bay."
Michael was arrested by the host's thoroughness and zeal, his disregardof his own safety. "And you, when you unlock the door on these rogues?"
"I shall fare as I shall fare, and not grumble either way. For yourpart, get away on the King's business, and God guide him safe, say I."
"But at least there's our reckoning to pay."
"Not a stiver. Nay, I'll not hear of it. Am I so poor a King's manthat I grudge a cut from the joint and a bottle to the Riding Metcalfs?"
Michael warmed afresh to the man's loyalty. "Our thanks, host. As forthe three in yonder, they'll not trouble you. I told them the doorwould be unlocked in an hour's time, explained that my folk were in theneighbourhood, and warned them to save their skins as best they could.You'll laugh till there are no more tears to shed when you see two ofthem in their bravery. Till I die that picture will return--their twosad faces set on top of our gay finery."
With a nod and a cheery call to his horse, he took the road again; andKit and he spurred fast to recover the lost ground until they reached asteep and winding hill. For their cattle's sake they were compelled totake a breather at the top, and Kit looked over the rolling wolds with aheart on fire for Rupert and the errand. Somewhere yonder, under theblue, misty haze, lay York, the city old to courage and the hazard. Newhazards were in the making; it behoved Michael and himself to give nospoiled page to York's long story.
"What a lad for dreams it is!" said Michael, in his gentlest voice.
Kit turned, and the sight of Michael habited in sober gear, with asteeple hat to crown the picture, broke down his dreams. It is goodthat comedy and the high resolve are friends who seldom ride apart. "Thetwo we changed gear with, Michael--you would not laugh at them if youcould see yourself."
"I have a good mirror, Kit, in you."
So they eyed each other for a while, and took their fill of merriment.Then they went forward. What the end of the venture was to be, theyhazarded no guess; but at least they had papers and a garb that wouldpass them safely through the lines at York.
Another Royalist was abroad, as it happened, on a venture that to herown mind was both hazardous and lonely. The donkey that had helpedMichael to secure his first entry into York--the patient, strong-mindedass that had followed the Riding Metcalfs south and had grown to be theluck of their superstitious company--had been lost on the march betweenLathom House and Skipton. She had been stolen by a travelling pedlar,who found her browsing in a thistle-field a mile behind the army shehoped to overtake a little later on. He owned her for a day; and then,high spirit getting the better of dejection, she bided her time, shotout two hind-feet that left him helpless in the road, and set out on thequest that led to Michael--Michael, who might command her anything,except to go forward in the direction of her head.
To Elizabeth--her name among the Metcalfs--the forward journey was fullof trouble and bewilderment. She followed them easily enough as far asSkipton, and some queer instinct guided her up the High Street and intothe country beyond Otley. Then tiredness came on her, and she shambledforward at haphazard. At long last she blundered into Ripley; and,either because she knew the look of the Castle gateway, or because shegave up all for lost, she stood there and brayed plaintively.
A sentry peered from the top of the gate-tower. "Who goes there?" hedemanded gruffly.
Elizabeth lifted up her head and brayed; and presently William Fullaboy,guardian of the little door set in the main gateway, opened and peeredout into the flood of moonlight. Lady Ingilby came running, with JoanGrant, to learn the meaning of the uproar; alarms and sharp assaults hadbeen frequent since the Metcalfs left to find Prince Rupert.
"Why, 'tis Elizabeth, my lady," laughed William--"Elizabeth, the snod,li'le donkey we grew so fond of."
"Give her supper and a warm bed for the night," said Lady Ingilby. "Theluck comes home at last."
"But does it?" asked Joan Grant, a pitiful break in her voice. "We havelain warm abed while Kit was nursing his wounds on the open moors----"
"True, girl. He'll be none the worse for it. Lovers have a trick ofcoming home, like their four-footed kindred."
She would listen to no further trouble of Joan's, but patted Elizabeth'ssmooth ears, and talked to her, and fed her. The wife of a stron
g man,and the mother of strong sons, is always tender with four-footed things.