*CHAPTER XX.*
*THE HOMELESS DAYS.*
Marston Moor was fought and ended. A mortal blow had been struck at theKing's cause in the North; and yet the Metcalfs, rallying round LadyIngilby at Ripley, would not admit as much. The King must come to hisown, they held, and Marston was just an unlucky skirmish that matteredlittle either way.
York capitulated, and Squire Metcalf, when the news was brought atsupper-time, shrugged his shoulders.
"It's a pity," he said. "We must get on without the good town ofYork--that is all."
Lady Ingilby glanced across at him. For the first time since MarstonMoor she smiled. "And if all is lost, will you still believe that theworld goes very well?"
A great sob broke from the Squire, against his will or knowledge. "LadyIngilby, there are fewer Metcalfs than there were," he explainedshame-facedly. "I went through Marston Fight, moreover. It is not myfaith that weakens--it is just that I am human, and my courage fails."
None spoke for a while. The mistress of Ripley, on her knees in thechapelry, or busying herself about her men's needs, had learned what theSquire had learned. Those who had gone through the stress and anguishof the late battle, and the women who had waited here between closedwalls for news to come, all caught the wonder of this moment. It was asif some Presence were among them, interpreting the rough strife of swordand pike.
"If there were two Metcalfs left of us all," said the Squire, his bigvoice humorous in its gentleness, "we should still believe that all waswell with King Charles. And, if one fell, t'other would be glad to bethe last to die for His Majesty."
The moment passed. It was too intimate, too filled with knowledge ofthe over-world, for long continuance. Metcalf filled his glass afresh.The men were glad to follow his good example.
"Your health, Lady Ingilby--your good health," said the Squire.
While they were drinking the toast, the outer door was opened hurriedly,and a little, wiry man came in. His face was tired, and his clotheswere stained with rain and mud.
"Gad, here's Blake!" laughed Kit Metcalf. "Blake, the rider--I saw himbring the Metcalfs into Oxford."
Blake nodded cheerily. "Life has its compensations. I shall rememberthat ride down Oxford High Street until I die, I think. Lady Ingilby,I've a message from your husband, for your private ear."
A great stillness had come to Lady Ingilby, a certainty of herself andof the men about her. "He was always a good lover. You can give hismessage to the public ear."
"He escaped from Marston with twenty men, and hid in Wilstrop Wood.There was carnage there, but your lord escaped. And afterwards he fellin with Prince Rupert, returning with volunteers from the garrison atYork. He bids me tell you he is safe."
"Was that all his message, Mr. Blake?"
"No, it was not all, but--but the rest is for your private ear, believeme."
"I--am very tired. My courage needs some open praise. What was mylord's message?"
Blake stooped to whisper in her ear, and Lady Ingilby laughed. Keenyouth was in her face. "Gentlemen, it was a vastly tender message. I amproud, and--and a woman again, I think, after all this discipline ofwar. My husband bids me hold Ripley Castle for as long as may be, ifthe Metcalfs come."
"There never was much 'if' about a Metcalf," said the old Squire. "Ourword was pledged before ever Marston Fight began."
"Oh, he knew as much, but you forget, sir, that many hindrances mighthave come between your pledged word and yourselves. You might have diedto a man, as the Whitecoats did--God rest them."
The Squire's bluntness softened. The tenderness that is in the heart ofevery Yorkshireman showed plainly in his face. "True. We might allhave died. As it is, there are many gaps that will have to be explainedto the goodwife up in Yoredale."
And again there was a wonder and a stillness in the hall, none knowingwhy, till Lady Ingilby broke silence. "Such gaps need no explaining.They are filled by a golden light, and in the midst of it a rude woodencross, and over it the words 'For Valour.' There, gentlemen, I wearyyou with dreams. Lest you think me fanciful, let me fill your glassesfor you. It will do you no harm to drink deep to-night, and thesentries are ready at their posts."
They could make nothing of her. Gay, alert, she went about the board,the wine-jug in her hands. The message from her lord that Blake hadwhispered seemed to have taken a score years from her life, as strongsun eats up a rimy frost. When she bade them good-night and passed out,it was as if a spirit of great charm and well-being had gone and leftthem dull.
On the morrow there was work enough to keep them busy. The fall of Yorkhad sent Cromwell's men like a swarm of bees about the land. Dour andunimaginative in battle, they ran wild when victory was theirs. Men whohad been plough-boys and farm-hinds a year since were filled with headyglee that they had helped to bring the great ones low. Some of theirofficers could not believe--honestly, each man to his conscience--thatthere was any good or usefulness in gentlemen of the King's who worelove-locks because it was the habit of their class, and who chanced tocarry a fine courage under frivolous wearing-gear.
The Squire of Nappa was roused, somewhere about five of the clock, by adin and shouting from the courtyard underneath his bed-chamber. Atfirst he fancied he was back on Marston Field again, and raised a sleepychallenge. Then, as the uproar increased, he got out of bed, stretchedhimself with one big, satisfying yawn, and threw the casement open.
The summer's dawn was moist and fragrant. His eyes, by instinct, soughtthe sky-line where, in Yoredale, hills would be. Here he saw onlyrolling country that billowed into misty spaces, with a blurred andruddy sun above it all. The fragrance of wet earth and field flowerscame in with the warm morning breeze. He was a countryman again, gladto be alive on a June day.
Then he returned to soldiery, looked down on the press of men below, andhis face hardened. "Give you good-morrow, Cropheads," he said gently.
"And who may you be?" asked the leader of the troop.
"A Mecca for the King. Ah, you've heard that rally-call before, Ifancy. Your own name, sir?"
"Elihu Give-the-Praise."
"Be pleased to be serious. That is a nickname, surely."
A storm of protest came from the soldiery, and Elihu took heart of graceagain.
"Idolaters and wine-bibbers, all of you," he said, vindictiveness andmartyrdom struggling for the mastery. "Since I forswore brown ale andkept the narrow track, men know me as Elihu Give-the-Praise."
"Then, as one who relishes brown ale, I ask you what your business is,disturbing a Riding Metcalf when he needs his sleep?"
"Our business is short and sharp--to bid you surrender, or we sack theCastle."
"Your business is like to be long and tedious," laughed the Squire, andshut the casement.
He crossed to the landing and lifted a hale cry of "Rouse yourself,Meccas! What lads you are for sleeping!" And there was a sudden tumultwithin doors louder than the din of Puritans outside. It was then, forthe first time, that Lady Ingilby, running from her chamber with a loosewrap thrown about her disarray, understood the full meaning of clandiscipline.
The men who answered the rally-call were heavy with sleep and in no goodtemper; but they stood waiting for their orders without protest. Whenthe Squire told them what was in the doing, their faces cleared. Sleepwent by them like a dream forgotten. The Roundheads underneath firedsome random shots, as a token of what would follow if there were nosurrender; and, in reply, spits of flame ran out from every loophole ofthe Castle front. They were not idle shots. Elihu Give-the-Praise,with a stiff courage of his own, tried to rally his men, in spite of asplintered arm; but a second flight of bullets rained about them, andpanic followed.
"A thrifty dawn," said the Squire of Nappa, as if he danced at awedding.
For that day, and for three days thereafter, there was little sleepwithin the Ripley walls. Parliament men, in scattered companies,marched to replace the slain and
wounded. There were sorties from theCastle, and ready fire from the loopholes overhead; and in the courtyardspace lay many bodies that neither side could snatch for decent burial.There was not only famine sitting on the Ripley threshold now, butpestilence; for the moist heat of the summer was not good for dead orliving men.
In the middle watch of the fourth night, Squire Metcalf heard a companyof horsemen clatter up to the main gate. He thrust his head through acasement of the tower--the loopholes had been widened in these moderndays--and asked gruffly the strangers' errand.
"Surrender while you can, Nappa men," said the foremost horseman.
"It is not our habit."
"There's a company of Fairfax's men--a thousand of them, more orless--within call."
"Ay, so are a thousand cuckoos, if you could whistle them to hand. Whoare you, to come jesting at the gates?"
"Nephew to Lord Fairfax, by your leave."
"That alters matters. I'm Metcalf of Nappa, and aye had a liking forthe Fairfaxes, though the devil knows how they came into t'other camp.Their word is their bargain, anyhow."
Fairfax laughed. The sturdy bluntness of the man was in keeping withall he had heard of him. "That is true. Will you surrender--leaving allarms behind you?"
"No," said the Squire of Nappa. "Bring your thousand cuckoos in, and Ipromise 'em a welcome."
He shut the casement, called for his son Christopher to take hissentry-place, and sought Lady Ingilby.
"There's a good deal to be done in five minutes," he said, by way ofbreaking the news to her.
"Oh, you think only of speed these days, and I--believe me, I am tired."
"'Tiredness butters no haver-bread,' as we say in Yoredale. There aretwo ways open to us--one to surrender by and by, the other to ride outto-night."
"But my husband---oh, he left me here to hold the Castle."
"For as long as might be. He'll not grumble when he learns the way ofour riding out. Better leave Ripley now, with honour, than wait tillthey starve us into surrender."
He had his way. In silence they made their preparations. Then Metcalflifted a noisy rally-cry as he led his men into the courtyard. And thefight was grim and troublesome. When it was done, the Metcalfsturned--those who were left--and came back for the womenfolk; and someof the white horses, saddled hastily, fidgeted when for the first timethey found women's hands on the bridle.
Michael was one of those who gave his horse, lest a woman should go onfoot; and at the courtyard gate, while the press of folk went through,he halted suddenly.
"Kit," he said, "there's li'le Elizabeth braying as if all her worldwere lost. 'Twould be a shame to forget her, after what she did for meat York."
Christopher was young to defeat. "It's no time to think of donkeys,Michael," he snapped, humour and good temper deserting him in need.
"I defend my own, lad, whether Marston Moor is lost or won. I'm fond ofElizabeth, if only for her skew-tempered blandishments."
When he returned from the humble pent-house where they had lodged theass, the Squire had got his company ready for the march, and wasdemanding roughly where Michael was.
"Here, sir," said Michael, with the laugh that came in season or out.
"Making friends with your kind, lad," snapped the other. "Well, it's athrifty sort of common sense."
The odd cavalcade went out into the dewy, fragrant dawn. About the landwas one insistent litany of birds--merle and mavis, sleepy cawing of therooks, and shrill cry of the curlews and the plover. A warm sun wasdrinking up lush odours from the rain-washed fields and hedgerows.
"Eh, but to see my growing corn in Yoredale!" sighed Squire Metcalf."As 'tis, lads, we're heading straight for Knaresborough, to learn howthey are faring there."
Joan Grant had been content, till now, to sit Christopher's horse and tofind him at her stirrup.
"I do not like the Knaresborough country," she said, with gustypetulance.
"Not like it? Their garrison has kept the Cropheads busy."
"Oh, ay, Master Christopher! There's nothing in the world save sortiesand hard gallops. To be sure, we poor women are thrust aside thesedays."
"What is it?"
"What is it, the boy asks. I thought you grown since Yoredale days; andnow, Kit, you're rough and clumsy as when you came a-wooing and I badeyou climb a high tree--if, that is, you had need to find my heart."
They rode in silence for a while. Christopher thought that he hadlearned one thing at least--to keep a still tongue when a woman's temperran away with her. But here, again, his wisdom was derided.
"I loathe the tongue-tied folk! Battle, and audience with the King, andwayfaring from Yoredale down to Oxford--have they left you mute?"
"Less talkative," he agreed; "I've seen men die."
For a moment she lost her petulance. "You are older, graver, morelikeable. And yet I--I like you less. There was no need--surely therewas no need to--to let others tell me of the ferry-steps atKnaresborough."
"The ferry-steps?"
"So you've forgotten that poor maid as well. I pity Miss Bingham now.Why do women hate each other so? Instead, they should go into someSisterhood of Pity, hidden away from men."
"They should," assented Christopher; "but few of them do, 'twould seem."
"And now you laugh at me. Oh, I have heard it all! How pleasantly NiddRiver runs past the ferry-steps. She is beautiful, they tell me."
"I have no judgment in these matters. Ask Michael--he was there with mein Knaresborough."
Michael had chanced to overtake them at the moment, Elizabeth followinghim like a dog. "Nidd River--yes, she is beautiful."
"It was Miss Bingham we talked of. I--oh! I have heard such wonderfultales of her. She glamours men, they say."
Michael, for a breathing-space or two, was silent. Then he recapturedthe easy-going air that had served as a mask in harder times than this."She glamoured me, Miss Grant--on my faith, she did--whenever Kit wouldleave her side. The kindest eyes that ever peeped from behind alattice."
"Miss Bingham seems to be prodigal of the gifts that heaven has givenher."
"True charity, believe me--to spend what one has, and spend it royally."
"She seems, indeed, to be a very perfect hoyden. Oh, I am weary!Marston Moor is lost. Ripley is lost. Are we going to ride for everalong dreary roads?"
"Three of us go on foot--Kit the baby, Elizabeth and I. We have nogrumbles."
She turned on him like a whirlwind. "If the end of the world came--hereand now--you would make a jest of it."
"'If the end of the world came--here and now--you wouldmake a jest of it.'"]
"'Twould sweeten the end, at any rate. There's Irish blood in me, Itell you."
From ahead there sounded a sharp cry of command. "Hi, Meccas, all! Theenemy's in front."
War had lessened the ranks of the Metcalfs, but not their discipline.Michael and his brother clutched each a horse's bridle, after helpingthe women to alight, and sprang to the saddle. Even Elizabeth shambledforward to take her share of hazard, and Joan found herself alone. Andthe gist of her thoughts was that she hated Kit, and was afraid that hewould die.
She watched the Metcalfs spur forward, then slacken pace as they nearedthe big company coming round the bend of the road. The old Squire'svoice rang down-wind to her.
"King's men, like ourselves? Ay, I see the fashion of you. And wheremay you be from, gentles?"
"I'm the late Governor of Knaresborough, at your service."
"And I'm the Squire of Nappa, with all that the Cropheads have left ofmy Riding Metcalfs."
The Governor saluted with extreme precision. "This almost reconciles meto the loss of Knaresborough, sir. We have heard of you--give yougood-day," he broke off, catching sight of Michael and Christopher. "Wehave met in happier circumstances, I think."