‘We will drink to his most Gracious Majesty King Charles—to his success in arms, and the downfall of his enemies.’
Amias stepped forward eagerly to take up his glass, but Simon never moved. He had stood perfectly still, from the first, staring down at the table, his hands rigid at his side, and a feeling of cold emptiness growing inside him.
‘Oh, wake up, Simon,’ said Amias, standing with his own glass raised, his cheeks flushed and his tawny eyes blazing with eagerness.
Simon raised his head slowly, and looked at the Doctor. He said, ‘I—I’m not going to drink success to the King.’
There was a long, leaden silence that seemed to drag on and on. He saw the unbelief turn to angry amazement in the faces of the other two, as they stared at him; and he stared back, his head up and his eyes steady. But the cold emptiness was deepening and deepening within him; and it seemed to him that the gold had fallen like shining dust from the August afternoon.
‘Good grief! What wicked nonsense is this?’ rumbled Dr Hannaford at last.
Simon said, ‘My father says the King is ruining England with his Scottish quarrels and his foreign pacts, and his wars that he always loses because he puts his favourites in command whether they know anything about fighting or not.’
Dr Hannaford’s bushy brows were twitched together, and he had begun drumming on the back of a chair with his fingers. ‘If Parliament ties the King’s hands at every turn, by refusing him the money he needs for his wars, how can he win them?’ he demanded.
‘My father says that stopping the money is the only thing Parliament can do to hold the Kingdom from ruin,’ said Simon, ‘and my father says that unless the King learns better—unless he’s taught better—soon there’ll be no more freedom in England, for he grows into more and more of a tyrant every year.’
‘He is the King,’ said Dr Hannaford. ‘He has the Divine Right!’
‘My father says there’s no such thing. He says there’s one law of right and wrong for everybody, and being the King makes no difference. And I think so too.’
Amias broke in, stammering with outraged astonishment. ‘But Simon, you can’t mean—Simon, don’t you understand? I’m for the King!’
Simon turned his head as though his neck was stiff, and looked at him. Ever since they were three years old, and the Doctor had brought out his small son on his saddle-bow when he came to tend Diggory for the flux, it had been the two of them, Amias leading, Simon following. But now it was over; it could not be like that ever again. It was hard to break the habit of his whole remembered life, but it had to be done. ‘You can be for whom you like,’ he said. ‘I am for Parliament, like my father,’ and he watched the sudden hurt bewilderment in Amias’s eyes harden into scorn. ‘I’m going now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get home and tell my father, because he’s in the Militia.’
‘Simon’—Dr Hannaford was no longer angry, but only desperately worried and sorry—’ I had no idea that it would be like this. I know of course that your father had these—these ideas, but I find it hard to believe that he would really come out into rebellion against his King. Are you sure beyond all doubt?’
‘Yes—and if he wouldn’t, I would.’
‘Then there’s no more that I can say. Good-bye, Simon.’
‘Good-bye, sir.’ Simon turned to Amias, and held out his hand, but the other boy set down his glass and whipped both hands behind him.
‘I do not shake hands with the King’s enemies,’ he said, as coldly and grandly as any veteran of the King’s wars.
Simon’s own hand dropped to his side, and he grew very white. ‘Thank you for reminding me,’ he said, every whit as cold as Amias. ‘I do not shake hands with people who—’ He broke off, and turning on his heel stalked out of the room as proudly as if he had been going to instant execution.
Behind him, Dr Hannaford sighed and glanced at the back of his son, who had swung away and was staring, with hunched shoulders, out into the burning August evening.
Simon went round to the stables. Jem, the doctor’s man, was out and he was glad of it, for he did not want to have to speak to anybody just then. He saddled and bridled the fat pony and, leading him out into the street, mounted and set out for home. Avoiding the Market Square, where he knew most of Torrington would be gathered (indeed he could hear the uproar as he wheeled the pony into an alleyway), he cut across into Calf Street, where the crowds were thinner. But even there the people thronged up and down, loud voiced and with faces eager or scared, solemn or reckless, as the case might be, reading the freshly posted notices announcing the call-up of the Militia. Edging the pony slowly through the crowds, he emerged at last near the tumbledown cottages of Goosey Green, where the road forked, one road following the moorland ridge to Barnstaple, the other passing close to Stevenstone, the great house of the district. Both roads led home, but usually Simon took the ridgeway, because he loved the high moors. He took it now, but without knowing that he did so, striking his heel into the pony’s flank to urge it into a canter. He wanted to ride like the wind; he wanted the thunder of hooves in his ears and the wind of his going whistling by; speed and noise and shouting to outdistance and drown the misery within him; but the fat old pony declined to do more than a canter, and very soon dropped back into its usual trot, despite all that he could do to urge it on.
So Simon rode home, forgetting, for the first time in his life, to look for the distant view of Bideford Bay that opened to him just before the Chapel Path turned down to Heronscombe.
As he rounded the corner of Salutation, Scarlet, who was grazing there, tossed his head and came up at a gallop, whinneying. Scarlet was red as a fox now, full of joyous fire from his little yearling crest to the plumy sweep of his tail. But Simon rode on unheeding, and Scarlet, who was used to being petted and talked to on every occasion, stuck an indignant head over the gate, and stared after him like a spoiled child that has been snubbed for no reason.
A few yards farther on, Simon met two local men coming down the wagon-way, each with a bundle of accoutrements. Evidently the news had arrived before him and already the Militiamen were collecting their equipment from the Lovacott armoury. They gave him Good evening, and he returned their greeting; but after he had gone by, the two turned and looked after him.
‘Young Maister looks a bit whitish round the gills,’ said one. ‘Scared, maybe.’
But the other shook his head. ‘Looked to me more like a was tizzy ’bout something. Thicky quiet chaps, they’m allus the most passionful when they’m roused.’
The dogs came yelping to give him their usual welcome as he turned in through the gatehouse, and as he dismounted Mouse came bolting out to meet him, her face white and scared. ‘Father wants you in the parlour,’ she said. ‘Oh, Simon, Father’s going away to fight the King this evening!’
‘I know. Get Tom to rub Captain down, will you?’ Simon dropped the pony’s reins over the hitching-post and went in to answer his father’s summons.
Mr Carey was standing before the empty hearth, and the two dogs ran to him, snuffing unhappily at his feet. He was fastening the strap of his lobster-tail helmet, and he swung round as the boy entered, and stood looking across the room to him. Simon was used to the sight of his father in buff and steel, ready for the monthly training-musters, but as he checked on the threshold, it seemed to him that he was looking at a stranger: for the face in the shadow of the helmet was grimmer than he had ever seen his father’s face before.
‘Well, Simon, I suppose you know that we are at war?’
Simon nodded. ‘Yes, Father. It’s all over Torrington that the King has set up his standard at Nottingham.’
‘And the wind blew it down again, the same night,’ added his father quickly. ‘I am away to join my Company this evening.’
Simon came a step nearer, and begged with desperate eagerness. ‘Take me with you, sir! I’m very strong, and I could easily pass for fifteen, I’m sure.’
His father shook his head. ‘This isn’t a busin
ess for schoolboys.’
‘But I can shoot, and handle a horse better than many others who are older than I am,’ protested Simon.
‘I know you can; but I have not the remotest intention of taking you with me,’ said John Carey. Then his face lost some of its grimness. ‘Come here.’
Simon came, and his father put both hands on his shoulders and looked down at him.
‘Listen, Simon—because I do not know when I may see you again, and so you must remember what I say now. I have given Diggory orders for carrying on the demesne, and your mother has the affairs of the Manor in charge; and I wish you to go back to Blundell’s next term as usual, unless the war conditions should prevent you. Nobody knows what may happen. It is like setting light to stubble in a dry year: only the Lord of Hosts knows where the blaze will end. If the countryside becomes too unsettled, you may not be able to get through; but you are to go on with your schooling as long as you can. You understand?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘If I should be killed, you will be master of Lovacott. Look after your mother and sister, and remember that you can’t drive the likes of Diggory and Tom. Always be just in your dealings with them, and they will be just in their dealings with you; and never be too proud to take advice. Diggory knew how to farm this land before I was breeched.’
Again Simon nodded, but without a word.
‘Never neglect family prayers, never be afraid to make a stand for what you believe to be right. And whatever you do, if you have occasion to buy a calf, remember that a good Red Devon should have his legs set well out at the corners! He’ll grow to them; but a calf with its legs set near and close will be a mean small beast when ’tis grown.’
‘I’ll remember,’ said Simon.
‘Good. That’s all—except that if the war is not over by your sixteenth birthday—’
‘Yes, sir?’ Simon interrupted.
‘Take Scarlet and join the Parliamentary Army.’ Mr Carey dropped his hands from his son’s shoulders, and took up the heavy cavalry sword that had been lying on the table.
‘I hope the war isn’t over by then,’ Simon said fiercely. ‘Can I put on your sword for you?’ He took it from his father, and began to fasten the heavy buckles he had fastened so often before. His father’s voice made him check and look up.
‘Simon, have you and Amias come to the parting of the ways over this?’
Simon muttered something indistinctly. His fingers were still on the buckles, but his eyes, bright with misery, were raised to the long silver-hilted rapier that hung by its warm crimson slings above the mantle. Once, there had been a pair of them, for his grandfather had been a two-sword man, in the fashion of forty years before, and had carried his twin blades, Balin and Balan, in a double sheath. But he had given Balin to Dr Hannaford when he went to Padua University and first had need of a sword; and since then Balan had hung solitary above the mantle. Dr Hannaford had promised his blade to Amias when he was old enough to go armed; would he have to wait until he was sixteen, Simon wondered. Balan belonged to Simon already; it had been his ever since his grandfather had left it to him; and ever since he could remember he had seen it hanging there, one of the familiar things of life; but now, quite suddenly, it seemed to him that the long blade in its double sheath looked very lonely.
‘Son against father, brother against brother, friend against friend,’ said John Carey, testing the buckles. ‘Civil war is a hideous thing. Don’t hope for it to last, Simon.’
They went out together, followed by the dogs, into the long hall, where the thick sunlight of the August evening slanted in through the windows and lay in golden puddles on the stone-flagged floor, and the remains of supper were still on the table.
Simon’s mother, with the maids and Mouse at her heels, came in from the kitchen at the same moment, carrying the pack containing the ten days’ ration of wheaten biscuit and strong yellow cheese which all ranks of the Militia must carry with them to a muster.
‘Anne,’ said Simon’s father, ‘have you done with that pack? It’s time I was away.’
‘Quite ready, John.’ Simon’s mother set it down on the chest beside the open house-place door, and turned to him as he came towards her down the hall. Mouse was crying in a subdued frightened way, and so were the two maids and old Phoebe Honeychurch; but Simon’s mother smiled—at least her mouth smiled. ‘You’ll be in Torrington before it’s really dark. I’ve put in three clean shirts; they will last you until we can make arrangements.’ But when Simon’s father put his arms round her to say good-bye, she clung to him desperately, with her cheek pressed against the blacked steel of his cuirass. ‘Oh John, John, you will come home soon, won’t you?’
‘That is as God wills,’ said John Carey. ‘Keep a good heart, beloved.’ He put her away from him, and slinging the pack over his shoulder went out to his horse, which Diggory was walking to and fro in the courtyard. He spoke to the old man, paused an instant to test the girths and make sure his long horse pistols were safe in their holsters, then swung into the saddle. The others crowded round him; Mouse was standing at his stirrup, her small tear-stained face raised to his; Simon was patting the chestnut’s glossy neck.
‘Good-bye, Marjory. Be a good maid while I am gone,’ said Mr Carey. ‘Good-bye, Simon. Stand back both of you—no, don’t come out into the lane.’ Over their heads he looked for an instant at Simon’s mother; then he turned his horse toward the gatehouse, and clattered out of sight.
The little group in the house-place doorway stood listening to Hector’s hoof-beats growing fainter and fainter down the wagon-way. Simon was feeling much older than he had done when he got up that morning. In the last few hours he had broken with Amias, and he was lonely, with a desolation of loneliness such as he had never known before. And now his father had ridden off to fight for the things he thought right, and the weight of responsibility for Lovacott and his womenfolk felt very heavy on his shoulders.
The sound of hoof-beats was quite gone now, and the startled doves were fluttering down into the courtyard again. One landed on little pink feet close beside the door-sill.
Simon’s mother turned back into the house, looking very much as usual. ‘Simon, have you had your supper?’ she asked.
Simon shook his head. He had forgotten about supper.
‘Oh, my dear, you must be so hungry—come and have it this moment. Mouse, sweeting, don’t cry like that; it will only make you sick—it always does.’ She turned on the scared maids with little shooing gestures. ‘Run along, Meg; run along now, Polly. Have you no sewing nor spinning waiting to be done?’
War might come; the skies might fall; but Simon’s mother would see to it that her husband had clean shirts, her family were fed, and her maids not idle.
IV
Horsemen from the West
SIMON LEANED AGAINST the rough stone wall of the smithy, and gazed idly across the hummocky field-corner round which the lane curved like a horseshoe, to the church and straggling cottages of Little Torrington. He had ridden over to see Matthew Weeks about a litter of pigs, and had hoped to be home again by dusk; but only a mile on the homeward way Scarlet had cast a shoe, and he had had to turn back to have it seen to. It was a nuisance, but it couldn’t be helped, so he waited patiently.
The village had a very peaceful look in the early autumn quiet of 1644, so that it was hard to believe that England had been at war within herself for more than two years. Edgehill and Newbury were battles of the past, as well as a score of lesser fights. Parliament had triumphed at Marston Moor two months ago, and the Earl of Essex, overrunning the south, had driven Sir Ralph Hopton, the Royalist General, back into Cornwall. Leaders were rising out of the chaos, their names becoming household words; Prince Rupert and his brother Maurice, Hopton and Astley, for the King; and for Parliament, Fairfax and Waller, and a certain East Anglian squire, Oliver Cromwell, who had ideas of his own about raising armies. The whole country was in a turmoil, and yet always, between the marching armies, the ordinary l
ife of ordinary folk went on: wool was woven and tin mined, the harvest gathered in, and the fields ploughed for the autumn sowing, people married or died or were born, and Sunday dinners were cooked.
In Little Torrington, children were playing between the cottages, and there were Michaelmas daisies and a golden tide of Good-bye Summer in the little gardens. Two women stood in their doorways, discussing somebody’s shameless behaviour, and their voices came to Simon clearly across the field corner. A lean pig rooted contentedly among the yellow cabbage-leaves in a garbage pile, and on the brown hillside beyond the church a man was ploughing, with a wheeling crying cloud of gulls behind him.
Leaning there, with the quick ring of the smith’s hammer in his ears, and his eyes on the distant plough team, Simon found himself thinking idly back over those two years. During the first few months, his father had been one of the Barnstaple Garrison, serving under Colonel Chudleigh, who had built the fort at Bideford—for North Devon too had had their leader at the outset; and James Chudleigh had led his men out to victory again and again, until his name began to have a ring to it that was almost magic. Simon had seen him once riding by, a young man laughing into the high March wind, and understood why his men followed him as a guiding flame. Then had come the day when the garrisons of the three towns had marched out to head off Hopton’s advance from Launceston (for Cornwall had risen staunch for the King as Devon had done for Parliament). They had been defeated, and news of the disaster, filtering back into Devon, had brought with it the almost unbelievable tidings that James Chudleigh, taken captive by the King’s men, had turned his coat for the sake of freedom and a Colonelcy in the Royalist Army! The bright flame had been only a jack-o’-lantern, after all; and when it flickered out, some of the heart seemed to go from the men who had followed it. A few weeks later, after Bideford and Torrington had fallen, Barnstaple had yielded without a fight, leaving Plymouth to stand alone for Parliament in the West Country.