*CHAPTER V.*
*THE LADY OF RIPLEY.*
They carried Christopher into the tavern, and the Squire thrust thegaping onlookers from the room and shut the door. He thought the ladwas dying.
Kit lay on the lang-settle. The dancing firelight showed the pallor ofhis face, the loose, helpless surrender of limbs and body.
"I cared for the lad too much, maybe," growled the Squire. "He waslittlish, as we Metcalfs go, and a man's heart yearns, somehow, aboutthe baby of a flock."
For two hours he watched, and then Kit stirred. "The louts bandiedJoan's name about," the lad murmured.
"Ay, so they did. Get up and fight, lad Christopher--for Joan."
Kit obeyed the summons with a promptness that dismayed the Squire. Hegot to his feet, looked about him, and moved across the floor; then hislegs grew weak under him, and he tottered to the settle.
"Tell her it doesn't matter either way," he said. "Tell her I'm for theKing, as all the Metcalfs are."
He slept that night like a little child; and the Squire, watching besidehim, returned to his own childhood. The bitterness of fever was over.Kit would live, he thought.
Pansy was early astir next morning, and moved among the servants of theCastle with an aloofness that enraged the women, with a shy, upwardglance of her Puritan eyes that enthralled the men. She was demure andgentle; and when a lad came into the yard with his milking-cans, andsaid that there had been a bonnie fight in the village overnight, Pansyasked him how it had fared with Master Christopher.
"Oh, he?" said the lad, his eyes big and round at sight of her. "He wasready to die last night; but he's thought better of it, so they say."
Pansy did not take the news to her mistress, whose moods were not to bereckoned with these days, but to the lady of the house. Already she hadlearned, with her quick instinct for character, that Lady Ingilby andshe had much in common.
"The Riding Metcalfs are in Ripley, by your leave," she said, withdowncast eyes.
"I'm vastly glad to hear it. Miss Grant has told me of their loyalty.Well?"
"Master Christopher lies wounded in the tavern--he that carried themessage so well. It seems a shame that he should stay there with onlymen to nurse him."
"Ah, Master Christopher! I've heard of him, Why do you bring the newsto me, girl, instead of to your mistress?"
"Because, my lady, she's deep in love with him, and does not know it.I'd as lief meet a she-wolf in the open as talk of him to the mistress."
The other laughed whole-heartedly. It was the first real laugh she hadfound since her husband left her for the wars. "You've a head on yourshoulders, child, and a face rather too pretty for the snares of thisworld. I thank you for the news."
An hour later Lady Ingilby went out, alone and on foot, into Ripleystreet. There was a press of Metcalfs about the roadway--brawny men whohad slept beside their horses wherever they could find room about thefields, and who had gathered for the next day's call to action.
"Is the Squire of Nappa here?" asked Lady Ingilby.
"He's indoors," said Michael, with his graceless ease of bearing,"tending Christopher, the darling of our company."
"Go in and tell him that Lady Ingilby commands."
When the Squire came out, a little dizzy with his vigil, and altogetherglad that Kit had so far slept off his weakness as to ask for breakfast,he saw a lady with a high, patrician nose and keen, grey eyes, whosmiled at him.
"Sir, I come to inspect your company. In my husband's absence Iundertake his duties."
"Madam," he answered with rough grace, "my men are honoured. The Kingmay have better soldiers, but has he six-score to set side by side withmine for height and girth?"
He bade his men get to horse--as many of them as the street affordedroom for--and marshalled them briskly into line. Lady Ingilby wasastounded by the discipline they showed. It was as if their leaderscarcely needed to give an order; their readiness seemed to go with thecommand, as if one brain guided the whole company.
She took the salute with lively satisfaction. "You dwarf our houses,Metcalfs. I never guessed how low the inn roof is. You are all for theKing? Good! That was a lusty roar."
They faced each other, the cavalry and the slim, straight lady whosehusband was at the wars. And the Nappa men answered her laugh; and fromthis day forward they were comrades, she and they, and she could commandthem anything.
"Undoubtedly prayers are answered, if one prays long enough," she said,in her odd, imperative way. "There's been a siege of Ripley Castle, astealthy siege, and I've needed men about me."
"We are free for your service," said the Squire. "Indeed, we were infear of idleness, after doing what was asked at Skipton yesterday."
"There's no speed of attack in this venture." She read the man's needfor blows and the gallop, and would not tempt him into a promise rashlygiven. "You will understand, Mr. Metcalf, that my house is a hospitaljust now. Whenever a Cavalier takes wounds too hard for him, he dragshimself to Ripley. The countrymen all know my mind; and, when they finda lame dog of the King's, they bring him to my gate. The garrison of mygood castle, I tell you frankly, is made up of women and sick men."
"But we're no nurses," protested the Squire, with laughable simplicity."You'd have six-score other ailing men if you shut us up indoors."
Lady Ingilby laughed, for the second time since her husband rode for theKing. "We could not house you, sir. If there's scarce room for you inRipley's street, you would overfill the castle. I have other work foryou."
"In the open?"
"Ah, your eagerness! Yes, in the open. Keep our gates safe fromwithout, sir. There are few hale men among the garrison, and these arewearied out with sleeplessness. Prowling companies of Roundheads comethis way, giving us no rest. They know Sir William Ingilby is with theKing, they know I keep open house here for Cavaliers----"
"Bid your household rest," the Squire broke in. "There are six-score ofus here--judge for yourself whether we're big enough to guard you."
"Big enough," she assented, with a brisk, friendly nod. "But how tofeed your company, sir?" she added, returning to the prose ofhousewifery.
"We feed ourselves," laughed the Squire. "It seemed a fat country as werode through. Mutton--and corn for our horses--wherever these are,there's a meal for us."
Kit had left his half-finished breakfast at the sound of Lady Ingilby'svoice outside. It was not her quality, or the courage she was showingunder hardship, that stirred his pulses. As she turned to go in at thetavern door, saying she must see the wounded man, Christopher himselfcrossed the threshold.
"My faith, sir," she said tartly, "you should be in your bed, by thelook of you. You can scarce stand."
"Miss Grant is with you?" he asked, a sudden crimson in his cheeks.
"Oh, yes. The most wonderful maid that ever came to Ripley--her eyeslike stars--she feeds on thistledown."
"You are pleased to jest," he said, aloof and chilly.
"Not so hasty, by your leave. You've a message for this girl who supson moonbeams?"
Some kindness in her voice arrested Kit. "Tell her that I wish her verywell."
"I shall tell her nothing of the kind, my lad. D'ye want to win her?Then I shall tell her you were thinking of the wars--that, when I askedif you had any message, you seemed to have forgotten her. I shall makemuch of that ugly scar across your face--taken yesterday, by the look ofit--and hazard that you may live a week, with some good luck to helpyou."
"You've no heart," he said, the Metcalf temper roused.
"An older heart than yours--that is all. I have lived through your sortof moonlight, and found the big sun shining on the hill-top. My manwent out to the wars, and I--I would not have him back just yet for allthe gold in Christendom. Absence is teaching me so much."
"I need her. You do not understand."
"Tut-tut! You'll have to wait till you've proved your needing." Shelooked at the Castle f
ront, saw a star of light flicker and grow clearin a window on the left. "That is her room, Sir Love-too-well," shesaid, with the gentlest laugh. "When you are weary of guarding theCastle, glance up and picture her yonder, sipping dew, with all thefairies waiting on her."
"I thank you," said Kit, with childish gravity. "I shall know where tolook when all else in Ripley seems drab and tawdry."
Lady Ingilby beckoned Squire Metcalf to her side. "Your son is nocourtier, Mr. Metcalf," she said tartly.
"He was not bred that way. I licked him into shape."
"And yet he is a courtier. He loves well. Only, by your leave, defendmy gate against all women from the Yoredale country. I've Joan Granthere, and her maid Pansy, and between them they're turning our men'swits. Two pretty women can always outflank a troop of horse."
The Riding Metcalfs had a busy season between October of that year andthe next year's spring. So far as history-making went, the Civil War wasquiet enough. Pym, with his sane strength, died as Christmas wasnearing, and left the Parliament in a muddle of divided leadership. TheKing summoned a Parliament at Oxford, but nothing fruitful came of it.Yet in Yorkshire the Metcalfs found work enough to do. Loyal to theirpledge, they always left some of their number to guard Ripley Castle;the rest of them went harrying Puritans wherever they could find them.Sometimes they made their way to Skipton, creating uproar and adiversion of the siege; at other times they paid minute and embarrassingattention to Otley, for, of all the Parliament's officers, they detestedmost the Fairfaxes, who, as old Squire Mecca had it, should have learntbetter manners from their breeding.
Kit was divided between two allegiances now. One was owing unalterablyto the light which Lady Ingilby had shown him shining from Joan's upperroom. The other was Prince Rupert's. Through all the muddled rides andskirmishes and swift alarms of that hard winter, the Metcalfs had heardconstantly the praises of two men sung--Rupert's and Cromwell's. Ruperthad succeeded in the raising of a cavalry troop that already, rumoursaid, was invincible; Cromwell was building up his Ironsides, grim andheavy, to meet the speed and headlong dash of Rupert's men. Gradually,as the months went on, Kit shaped Prince Rupert to the likeness of ahero--a little less than saint, and more than man. Whenever he came hometo Ripley, he roamed o' nights, and looked up at Joan's window, andshaped her, too, to the likeness of a maid too radiant for this world.He was in the thick of the high dreams that beset an untrained lad; butthe dreams were building knighthood into the weft and woof of him, andno easy banter of the worldlings would alter that in years to come.
Joan played cat's-cradle with his heart. She would flout him for a day,and meet him at the supper-board thereafter with downcast eyes andtender voice; and Squire Metcalf would suppress his laughter when Kitconfided to him that women were beyond his reckoning.
Soon after dawn, on a day in late April, Kit stole out for a glance atthe left wing of the Castle, where Joan's window grew ruddy in thesunlight. Rain was falling, and a west wind was sobbing up across thesun. And suddenly he fancied that women were not beyond his reckoning.They were April bairns, all of them--gusty and cold, warm and full ofcheer, by turns. He remembered other Aprils--scent of gilly-flowers inthe garden far away in Yoredale, the look of Joan as she came down thefields to greet him--all the trouble and the fragrance of the days whenhe was giving his heart to her, not knowing it.
He felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. "Day-dreaming, Kit?" laughed theSquire of Nappa. "Oh, she's there, my lad, safe housed. I was about toknock on the gate, but I fancy you'd best take my message to LadyIngilby."
Kit was glad to take it, glad to be nearer by the width of the courtyardto that upper window. Women--who, for the most part, are practical andruled by household worries--must laugh often at the men who care forthem with true romance.
When the gate was unbarred, and he had passed through, a kerchieffluttered down--a little thing of cambric, ladylike and foolish. Kitdid not see it. His glance had roved to the upper window, and there,framed by the narrow mullions, was Joan's face.
"You do not care to pick it up," she said with a careless laugh. "Howrough you are, you men of Yoredale."
Kit saw the favour lying at his feet, and pinned it to his hat. When heglanced up again, the window overhead was empty, and Lady Ingilby,standing at his side, was bidding him good-morrow.
"I have urgent news for you," he said, recovering from confusion.
"Not so urgent but a kerchief could put it out of mind. But comeindoors, lest a snowstorm of such favours buries you. You'll have manysuch storms, I hazard--you, with your big laugh and your air ofmust-be-obeyed."
When they had come into the oak-parlour, and Lady Ingilby had seen thatthe door was close-shut against eavesdroppers, Kit gave his message.
"A man rode in an hour ago from York. The garrison there is near tofamine. They're besieged by three armies--Lord Fairfax at Walmgate Bar,my Lord Manchester at Bootham Bar, and the Scots at Micklegate. Myfather sends me with the message, and asks if you can spare the RidingMetcalfs for a gallop."
"Six-score to meet three armies?"
"If luck goes that way."
She stood away from him, looking him up and down. "My husband is ofyour good breed, sir. I gave him to the King, so I must spare mysix-foot Metcalfs to the cause."
Joan Grant came into the parlour. Kit, seeing the filtered sunlightsoft about her beauty, thought that the world's prime miracle ofwomanhood, a thing dainty, far-away, had stepped into the room.
"Can I share your secrets?" she asked diffidently.
"I've none," said Kit, with a sudden laugh. "I carry your kerchief,Joan--at least, my hat does, whenever I wear it in the open, for men tosee."
Again she was aware of some new self-reliance, some ease of speech andcarriage that had been absent in the Yoredale days. A few months ofperil had accomplished this; she asked herself, with a queer stab ofjealousy, what a year of soldiery would do.
"I dropped the kerchief by chance, sir," she said coldly. "You willreturn it."
"By and by, when it has been through other chance and mischance. LadyIngilby, you shall be judge between us. Is the kerchief mine?"
The older woman laughed. "Yours--when you've proved your right to wearit. Meanwhile, it is a loan."
"Women always forsake each other at the pinch," said Joan, with a gustof temper.
"To be sure, girl. Our men-folk are so often right, in spite of theirabsurdities. This venture toward York, Mr. Metcalf? You propose toride against three armies--a hundred and twenty of you?"
"No, by your leave. We hope to get near the city in one company, andthen decide. If York is leaguered by regiments, there'll be an outerrim of Metcalfs, waiting their chance of capturing news going in orcoming out."
"Good! I begin to see how strong you are, you clan of Metcalfs. Youare one, or two, or six-score, as need asks. I think you are welladvised to go to York."
Joan Grant turned from the window. Her aloofness and disdain were gone."Would you not stay to guard our wounded here?" she asked.
The mellow sunlight was busy in her hair. Her voice was low andpleading. Kit was dizzied by temptation. And Lady Ingilby looked on,wondering how this man would take the baptism.
"We fight where the King needs us most--that is the Metcalf way," hesaid at last.
"If I asked you not to go? Of course, I care nothing either way. Butsuppose I asked you?"
With entire simplicity and boyishness, Kit touched the kerchief in hishat. "This goes white so far as I can guide it."
"Ah," said Lady Ingilby. "The King should hear of you, sir, in days tocome."
When he had gone, Joan came to her aunt's side. "He--he does not care,and I would we were home in Yoredale, he and I. I was free to flout himthere."
"Never trust men," said Lady Ingilby, with great cheeriness. "He doesnot care, of course--no man does when the battle music sounds."
"But he--he was glad to wear my kerchief."
"It is the fashion among our Cavalier
s. That is all. He would not careto take the field without a token that some poor gentlewoman was dyingof heart-break for his wounds."
Joan found her dignity. "My own heart is sound," she protested.
"Then don't accuse it, child, by protests."
"I'm so glad that he's gone--so glad!" She crossed to the window again,looked out on the sunlit street. "How drab the world is," she saidpettishly. "There'll be snow before night, I fancy; it grows chilly."
"The world's drab," assented Lady Ingilby. "What else does one expect atmy years? And our six-foot Metcalf will forget you for the first prettyface he meets in York."
"Is he so base? Tell me, is he so base?"
"No; he forgets--simply, he forgets. Men do."
Without, in Ripley street, there was great stir of men and horsesgetting ready for the York road. Lady Ingilby, hearing the tumult of it,crossed to the window, and her heart was lighter by twenty years as shewatched the cavalcade ride out.
"The White Horses, and six-score giants riding them! They'll makehistory, girl. The pity is that not all of those six-score will sit asaddle again. They have the look of men who do not care how and whenthey die, so long as King Charles has need of them."
"Kit will return," said Joan, in a chastened voice.
"That is good hearing. How do you know it, baby-girl?"
"Because I asked him to return. Just to nurse his wounds wouldbe--Paradise, I think."
The Metcalf men were a mile on the York road by now. Michael, thereputed black sheep and roysterer of the clan, rode close besideChristopher, and chattered of a face he had seen at an upper window ofthe Castle.
"A face to lead a man anywhere," he finished, "Hair like wind in therusty brackens."
Kit touched the favour in his hat. "It is she I fight for, Michael--forthe King and Joan."
"Are you always to have luck, just for the asking?" growled Michael.
"This time, yes, unless brother fights with brother."
For a moment they were ready to withdraw from their kinsfolk and settlethe issue in some convenient glade. Then Michael yielded to the queer,jealous love he had learned, long since in Yoredale, for this lad.
"Oh, we'll not quarrel, Kit. There'll be another face for me at thenext town we ride through. There are more swans than one, and all turngeese in later life."
Squire Mecca, hearing high words from the rear, rode back to learn whatthe uproar was about. "So you're at your brawling again, Michael?" heroared.
"No, sir. I was wishing Kit good luck for the lady's favour he iswearing in his hat."
"You're a smooth-tongued rascal! As for you, Kit, lady's favours canbide till we're through with this rough work. Moonshine is prettyenough when the day's over, but the day is just beginning."
They rode by way of Tockwith village, long and straggling, and forwardover a heath studded thick with gorse and brambles, and set about withblack, sullen wastes of bog.
Squire Metcalf, for all his hardihood, was full of superstition, as mostfolk are who have good wits and healthy souls. A little wind--of thesort named "thin" in Yoredale--blew over Marston Moor, chilling the warmsunlight.
"There's a crying in the wind," he said, turning to Kit, who was ridingat his bridle-hand. "I trust it's sobbing for the end of all foultraitors to the King."