The Fortunes of Lal Faversham

  “Newbury, girl?” I echoed, fastening upon the word. “Why talk you of Newbury? Am I near the place?”

  “’Tis but a mile or so away.”

  I struggled to rise, and inadvertently put forth my wounded arm. I gasped at a sharp twinge of pain.

  “You are hurt, sir,” exclaimed the maid, coming nearer.

  For all reply, I tore aside the bloodstained cambric sleeve and laid bare the wound, which now bled anew. ’Twas a mere nothing, as I have said, but the blood gave it an ugly look, and my little maid went white to the lips at the sight of it. Yet controlling her feelings bravely, she ran to the stream, and dipping her kerchief in the water, she returned and bathed the swollen limb, and when that was done she made shift to bandage it.

  “’Tis said a great battle was fought at Worcester yesterday,” quoth she.

  “Yesterday!” I repeated. “Was it but yesterday?”

  Those eyes of hers grew round at that. “You cannot have been there,” she murmured, half questioningly.

  “Say you so—” I began, then remembering that I knew not to whom I spoke, I stopped abruptly.

  “You are afraid to speak, sir. What do you fear?” she cried petulantly. “I am but a woman.”

  “So, madam, was Delilah.”

  “Go your ways, sir,” she answered, rising with a pretty show of indignation. “Had I known with what a churl I dealt I had not wasted charity upon your arm.”

  For all my sudden mistrust, I grew sorely alarmed lest she should leave me where I lay.

  “Sweet mistress, forgive me,” I begged. “Pity the plight of a poor hunted cavalier, who, did an angel come down from heaven to minister to his wants, would suspect it of being in league with Cromwell.”

  She stopped and turned again, and her gentle eyes were full of pity. “You are that, sir?” she asked.

  “I am that, child,” I answered. “I am a Kentish gentleman, Lionel Faversham by name, who fought yesterday beside his king on Worcester field; a poor, unfortunate cavalier, whose head is worth a handful of guineas to any one who may care to deliver it to the bottle-nosed lord general.”

  Thus was our peace made, and my heart beat joyously at the news that her father—a farmer in those parts—was secretly a royalist, and that in his house I might count upon a welcome shelter until I had gathered strength to resume my journey toward Chichester. She sat down beside me by the brook, and there by this wise child’s advice we waited until night had fallen. At last we ventured forth, and albeit the distance was but half a mile or so, it was to me a weary journey. Our way lay across a meadow from which we passed by a gate into a garden, and stood at length in the shadow of a large and not unimposing house.

  The gate clicked behind us, and, as if those within had been on the alert, the door was opened, and in the flood of light that fell from it a burly figure was outlined on the threshold.

  “Is it you, Kate?” came a man’s deep voice, adding, as she ran forward, some mild reproof touching her long absence. This and my presence needed explanation, and that she set about giving her father. But no sooner did the yeoman learn my quality, my condition, and whence I came, than, cutting her explanations short, he drew me into the house and closed the door. I stood before a huge fire, in a roomy kitchen, blinking like an owl in the light that smote my eyes, and listening with not a little emotion to the burly farmer’s cheery welcome.

  They set me at table, and the honest fellow and his good dame stood by to minister to my wants.

  The meal done, Melland brought forth a black jack and set me in the corner seat by the hearth and there I rested, pervaded by a delicious sense of well being, such as seemed never before to have been mine. Anon my host renewed his questions, whereupon, with the yeoman, his wife and his two children for as rapt an audience as ever rejoiced the heart of story-teller, I related to them how Worcester had been fought and lost, the horrors that I had witnessed, and that which in my flight I had undergone.

  Next morning found me sick and feverish and unable to quit my bed.

  At the end of three weeks, thanks to the unflagging care bestowed upon me by Mistress Melland and Kate, I was sufficiently recovered to quit my bed and sit a while in my chamber. But I was monstrous weak, and another week sped by before I dared venture out of doors. Thereafter my strength returned apace, until one day, in the early part of October. I drew my host aside and after expressing to him some little measure of the gratitude that filled my heart, I added that methought ’twas time I should push on to Chichester and the friends upon whose help I counted. But the burly yeoman flouted the idea. I was not yet strong enough, and it was a long ride for one in my condition.

  Later, on that same day, Melland came to me with a suit of sad-colored garments and a steeple hat such as Puritans affected.

  “Mr. Faversham,” said he in apologetic tones, “I am taking a great liberty. That gold-laced coat of yours savors too much of the cavalier to pass unobserved in so humble a house as mine.”

  “But who is there to observe it, my good Melland?” I laughed.

  His face grew very serious.

  “There is one coming to-day who might look upon it with disfavor—one Colonel Jackson of the Roundhead army, and so, if you’ll forgive the liberty, methought it wise to bring you these somber clothes so that you may don them should you so think fit.”

  “But this Colonel Jackson,” I asked, “what does he seek at the Knoll?”

  “He is the son of a neighboring farmer, and for years—since his childhood—he has been wont to come and go here as he listeth. Myself I prize his sour looks but little, yet he is too dangerous a man nowadays to make an enemy.”

  “Very well,” I broke in with a laugh, “he shall find me as thorough a Roundhead as ever sang litanies to St. Satan. Give me these godly clothes, Melland.”

  Arrayed in that devil’s livery I sat taking the air in the garden that afternoon, when Kate came out and stood with her head on one side surveying me mockingly.

  “Come hither, Kate,” I commanded, with ironical sternness. “Come hither and deride not the godliness of my appearance. See you this letter, child?” And I drew a package from my pocket.

  She nodded and came nearer.

  “That you may know how great is the service I require of you, let me tell you, Kate, that it is to a lady in Inverness— a lady who may some day—unworthy though I be—do me the honor to become my wife. I doubt she is anxious to learn what hath befallen me, and I would have this letter reach her without delay. Will you see to it, Kate? Myself I dare not venture into Newbury.”

  She took the letter and gazed abstractedly at the superscription.

  “Is Mistress Margaret very beautiful?” she asked abruptly.

  I turned to look at her, marveling at her question. Then I laughed as I bethought me of what interest such matters are to a woman.

  “Beautiful, Kate?” I cried. “Stay, you shall form your own opinion!” And drawing from my bosom the little jeweled picture my lady had given me, I held it before her. For a long minute she looked intently upon my Margaret’s sweet face, then she cried:

  “How you must love her!”

  “May you be loved some day, child, as truly and loyally as I love her. Some day, perchance, she may know you and thank you for all that you have done for her lover, more fittingly than my clumsy tongue can thank you, little friend.”

  I patted her hand affectionately as I spoke, for indeed I had grown fond of winsome Kate. She smiled a half sad little smile, and her eyes looked moist. She was about to speak when the gate clicked. I looked up sharply, to behold a tall, gaunt man in black approaching us. One glance at that funereal figure was enough to tell me that this was the expected Colonel Jackson. He was a man of some twenty-five years of age, whose pale, thin face was rendered more somber even than nature had designed it by the shadows that fell on it from his broad-brimmed steeple hat. His eyes were deep-set and red-rimmed, and his nose the bill of a bird of prey; his mouth wide, thin-lipped and cruel. Altogether,
he was a damnable-looking knave, and from the moment that I beheld him I believe I hated him. Such feelings are oft reciprocal, and the glance he bestowed upon me was not one of love.

  In a surly tone he gave my companion greeting in the Lord, and in an unmannerly fashion inquired my name of her.

  “’Tis Master Turner,” she answered, “a friend of my father’s.”

  “And of thine, wench?”

  “And of mine,” she replied calmly, whereupon he scowled at me.

  The motive of his unwelcome visits was not long a mystery to me. He came a-wooing, and little Kate was his quarry. That wooing of his was like no other that I have ever seen. He pressed his suit with lines from Holy Writ, and where a lover would have waxed poetical, he cited texts and proverbs.

  That Kate detested him was soon apparent, as also that she feared him not a little, and in my heart I wished her rid of him. One morning—the fourth after his coming—from my window, which overlooked the garden, I heard high words out there betwixt them, and from what I caught I gathered that I was the cause of their dissension, and that this singer of psalms was jealous.

  Their quarrel gave me an idea, which later in the day I took to Kate.

  “Little friend,” said I. “I owe you much, and if in some slight measure I might serve you by ridding you of this crop-eared plague, say but so and the thing is done.”

  “How?” she cried. “You could rid me of him?”

  “Can I?” I echoed. “Why, rat me, child, it hath been said that Lal Faversham plays the prettiest sword in England.”

  “Oh, no, no!” she cried, with a shudder. “I did not understand you. You must not think of it. Promise me that you will not, Mr. Faversham.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “I’ll think of it no more. Yet should you change your mind, and find him growing past endurance, command me as a brother.”

  ’Twould seem, however, that not only in my mind but in that also of Master Jackson was the thought begotten that a little sword-play might afford us some diversion. He came to me that evening whilst I sat by the fire, and resting his elbow upon the overmantel he scowled down upon me.

  “Art like to remain long at Knoll, Master Turner?”

  “Longer I doubt than will give thee pleasure,” I answered pertly.

  “Have a care, Master Turner,” he snarled, growing livid.

  “A care of what, sirrah?” I retorted, springing up. “Dost threaten me?”

  “I am no vain boaster to threaten men,” he answered, with more restraint. “I do but warn thee to have a care, Master Turner—if, indeed,” he added, with a cunning leer, “Turner be thy name.”

  “Oddfish!” I cried impetuously. “Did you but know my name I warrant me you would bear yourself less boldly.”

  Scarce were the words uttered than I realized their indiscretion, and looked to Colonel Jackson for an explosion. Instead, however, the Puritan’s face grew blank with surprise, and in his eyes was the look of a man who has stumbled upon a great discovery.

  I could not guess that his suspicions, set upon a spoor by my hint of an identity that should command respect, and by the royal oath that I had made use of, had traveled over my long, lank figure, my black lovelocks. and my swart countenance, bringing him to the conviction that before him stood none other that Charles Stuart, since these particulars vaguely agreed with the description given of the royal fugitive. But learning all this in the light of that which befel thereafter, I can measure Master Jackson’s surprise, and marvel not that for a moment it left him speechless. Then recovering himself:

  “I profess ’tis no more than I suspected—thou art a malignant. I am no tipstaff, Master Turner; yet endurance hath its bounds; if in four days thou art still at the Knoll or in the neighborhood, I shall arrest thee. Be warned and be grateful for a generosity greater than thou deservest.”

  ’Twas a speech well conceived to deaden my alarm, and—fool that I was—I let his treacherous cunning cozen me, and rested satisfied that for four days he would take no action.

  The day was Monday; I resolved that on the following Wednesday I would depart. Had I been possessed of a grain of wit I had quitted the Knoll that very night. Instead, I set about making ready for my departure with all ease and leisure. On the morrow I commissioned Melland to purchase me a horse, and that same day he brought me a stout sorrel for which I paid him twenty caroluses.

  Wednesday’s sun rose and set, and for the last time I found myself at supper at Master Melland’s hospitable board. One hour more had I to spend ’neath the roof that had so long sheltered me, and of which I shall carry to my grave a memory laden with gratitude and affection. I sat spurred and booted, and in the stable my horse awaited me, ready saddled for the night journey.

  Opposite to me sat the colonel, a leer of triumphant mockery on his face, begotten, methought, of his joy at my departure. Melland was speaking, when of a sudden a tramp of feet without came to startle us. It was the regular tramp of trained bands, and in the sound there was something ominous and menacing. It was followed by a knock that was like the blow of a weapon against the door.

  In silence Melland rose and went to open, giving me in passing a look that was eloquent with fear. Mistress Melland, Kate, and her sister Betty looked on with white faces, but said no word. Jackson alone remained calm, that sinister smile upon his lipless mouth. In a flash, it came to me that he had betrayed me, but before I could voice my discovery the door was opened and on the threshold stood a short, fat man. The sight of that portly figure and vulgar face with its great red nose brought me to my feet in an instant, and a madness seemed to fire my blood—’twas the arch fiend, Cromwell, himself!

  “Greeting to all in God’s name!” he exclaimed, in a deep, sonorous voice. My answer was to snatch a knife from the table, and fling myself in a blind access of rage toward that loathesome murderer.

  But scarce had I taken two steps when, from behind, a couple of arms caught me about the middle; a leg was thrust around mine; and tripped, I fell, with Master Jackson on top of me. Before I could realize what had chanced, I was on my feet again with a trooper on either side of me, and my hands pinioned behind me. For a moment Cromwell eyed me with a glance of cold contempt.

  “Who is this that cometh betwixt the lion and his prey?” quoth he in a voice of thunder.

  “’Tis he,” answered Jackson, “the young man, Charles Stuart.”

  “This, Charles Stuart!” returned Cromwell in accents of mingled scorn and rage. “Is it on a fool’s errand thou hast brought me hither?”

  “If you came to find King Charles,” I put in, “your errand was indeed a fool’s, Master Oliver. His Majesty, whom God befriend, is in France.”

  “Thou liest!” he blazed.

  “You would not dare say so if my hands were untied, you bottle-nosed brewer,” I retorted contemptuously.

  “How shall I deal with him to stop his ribald tongue?” cried Jackson.

  The lord general’s baleful eye rested coldly on me for a moment.

  “What is thy name, fellow?” he asked.

  “Lionel Faversham,” I answered recklessly, “gentleman-in-waiting to his Majesty, King Charles the Second, and lately a captain in his Majesty’s army at Worcester.”

  “The which,” he added, “by a crowning mercy of the Lord of Hosts has been scattered as the Philistines were scattered.” Then in a sterner voice: “Deal with him as Aman was dealt with, Jackson. Take two men and hang him to the first tree— Stay,” he amended. “I will be the destroyer of no man’s soul. Let him have till daybreak to make his peace with God.”

  * * *

  I lay that night in Newbury gaol, listening to the chiming of a neighboring clock by which I reckoned the approach of eternity. I fear me that I did no praying. My course was run, and methought that to seek by a few hours’ supplication—because, forsooth, I lacked all other occupation—to make amends for so many misspent years, were little short of an impertinence. I thought much indeed of my sweet Margaret,
in far-off Inverness, and but for that thought I might have looked with indifference upon my end. Death and I were no strangers, and after all, to die, I take it, is the chief purpose for which man is born.

  A thought or two I bestowed also upon Kate, and I wondered would the gentle child shed a tear for the poor soldier of fortune she had befriended.

  Day broke at length, and a bell tolled somewhere in the prison or the neighborhood, I know not which. There was a drawing of bolt and a clatter of keys. The time was come. Heigho! No more remained but to give these crop-ears a lesson in the art of dying.

  The door opened and a man bearing a lanthorn entered my cell, followed by another wrapped in a cloak. I rose and bowed.

  “Your servant, gentlemen,” said I.

  Guided by that silent couple, I marched down a long corridor.

  “A chilly morning, my friends,” I murmured.

  “Knows thy ribald tongue no peace, even in such an hour as this?” came Jackson’s voice from the folds of the cloak.

  “So! ’Tis you, O crop-eared son of Israel!” I answered.

  “Peace,” he snarled, whilst he of the lanthorn opened a door on our right, and signed to me to enter. Marveling, I did as I was bidden; then the door was closed and locked upon me, and I found myself in another cell.

  I sat down and waited. Moments went by, and presently there came the tramp of feet and clatter of arms. At last, I told myself. But they marched past my door and on in the direction of the cell that I had quitted. I heard them halt, then a piercing shriek reached me. Presently I heard them returning, and with them one whose cries and blasphemies curdled my blood as I listened. Clearly there was another execution at Newbury that morning.

  The bell tolled on and on, and at length ceased. Still I waited. The sun rose, and yet none came to me. Anon a gaoler brought me some coarse food and a beaker of water. I questioned him, but he answered naught. And thus the day wore on and evening followed. Weary, I stretched myself upon my pallet, and despite the suspense that held me, I went to sleep.

  I awakened with the glare of a lanthorn in my eyes to find beside me the same two figures that had visited me at daybreak.