CHAPTER XXVII
HOW RUPERT WAS TOO CLEVER
After all the wonders of the last hour, Merrylips and Rupert were keyed high with excitement. They felt as if they could walk right along and never tire until they came to Walsover. But before they had gone a mile they found that Master Robert Lucas and Mistress Sybil Venner were just as hungry and footsore as those little ragamuffins, Rupert Hinkel and Tibbott Venner, had ever been.
They sat down at last under a hedge. Rupert pulled off his doublet and folded it about Merrylips, though she begged him keep it for himself.
"I am hardier than thou," he said. "And I must care for thee tenderly, since thou art a little maid."
"But I'm a boy," Merrylips answered. "Munn bade me be a boy, and so I still must be, unto all save thee, until I come among mine own people. So do not thou fret thyself for me, Rupert, for I am not cold nor am I overweary."
They sat side by side and hand in hand while the twilight closed round them. Across the sombre fields they saw the small lights of a village kindle one by one. Then suddenly Rupert slapped his knee.
"I've a plan!" he cried.
Off he posted, and Merrylips was left alone in the dark. She watched the stars shine out above her, and called them by the names that Lady Sybil had taught her. Then she thought of Lady Sybil and of the joy that would be hers, when she saw her lost nephew. And in that thought she almost forgot that she was cold and hungry.
It was late in the evening and the village lights were dimmed, when Rupert came stumbling back across the fields.
"Here's bread," he panted, "a huge crusty piece, and a bit o' cold bacon, and two great apples, and I've a ha'penny besides, and one on 'em gave me a sup of ale, but that I might not bear away. Now eat of the bread, Merrylips. Eat all thou wilt, for to-morrow we'll have more."
"But how didst thou come by it, Rupert?" she asked.
"Honestly, I warrant thee," he said, and then he laughed in a shamefaced manner.
"I went unto the village alehouse, and I sang for the greasy clowns were sitting there. At Monksfield the officers said that I was a lusty lad at a catch. So when I sang and spoke up saucily, these rude fellows gave me of their food. So thou seest," he ended, "I've sung for thee at last, Merrylips, though at Monksfield I would not do't for the asking."
Rupert joked and laughed about it bravely. But Merrylips knew that, in plain words, he had gone a-begging to get food for them.
It was the first time, even in his rough life, that Rupert had had to do a thing that was so hateful to his pride, but it was not the last time. They had to have food, those two poor little travellers, and they had no money with which to buy it. So time after time Rupert did the only thing that he could do. He slipped into a farmyard or a lonely alehouse, and there, with his songs and his pert speeches, he got now a piece of bread, and now a ha'penny, and now, far oftener than he told Merrylips, only cuffs and curses for his pains.
While Rupert went on these risky errands, Merrylips hid in the fields. But one afternoon, when she was seated under a straw-stack, she was found by the surly farmer that owned the field. He shook her as soundly as ever a little boy was shaken, and threatened to set his dog upon her. After that Rupert thought it best not to leave her alone, but to take her with him wherever he went.
He was sorry to do this. He feared that she might be hurt or frightened by the rough men among whom he had to go. He feared too lest the sight of such a young lad as she seemed, might make people ask questions. And just then he was very eager to escape notice.
They were now drawing near to the rebel lines, which they must cross, if they would ever reach Walsover. To north of them lay the town of Ryeborough, which was held for the Parliament by Robert Fowell, Lord Caversham. It was a walled town with a castle,—a strong place, from which bands of rebels went scouting through the countryside.
This much Rupert had learned in the alehouses. And he and Merrylips remembered, too, that it was from Ryeborough that men and guns had been sent to the siege of Monksfield. They feared the very name of the town, and they would have been glad to slip from one hiding-place to another, and never show themselves to any one, till they had left it long miles behind them.
But they could not keep on marching, unless they had food to eat. And in order to get food, they must go where people were. And since the cross farmer had frightened Merrylips, they felt that they must go together. So after some hours of hunger they screwed up their courage, and late of a chill afternoon limped, side by side, into a hamlet of thatched cottages that was called Long Wesselford.
"Be not feared!" Rupert whispered to Merrylips, as they passed slowly down the village street. "There are no soldiers here, for I questioned yesternight at the alehouse. Indeed I have been wary! Now do thou keep mum and let me talk for both. And perchance, an we get a penny, we'll spend it for a night's lodging, and lie beneath a roof for once."
"That would like me mightily!" sighed Merrylips.
In spite of herself she shivered in her worn clothes. Up to that time the weather had been mercifully mild, but now the night was falling wintry cold. The puddles in the road were scummed with ice, and in the air was a raw chill that searched the very marrow of the bones.
Halfway down the street the two children found that a stone had got into Merrylips' shoe. So they sat down on the doorstep of a cottage that was larger than the others, while Rupert untied the shoe-lace and shook out the stone. They were just ready to rise and trudge on, when behind them they heard the door of the cottage flung open.
Out stepped a big, blowzy young woman that made Merrylips think of Mawkin. Before they could rise and run away, she was bending over them.
"Whither beest thou going, sweetheart?" she asked Merrylips.
Rupert looked surprised. You may be sure that he was not spoken to in that kindly way, when he went alone into the village alehouses! But Rupert was almost thirteen, and looked a hardy little fellow, while Merrylips, in her ragged boy's dress, did not seem over nine years old, and she looked tired and piteous besides.
So the blowzy woman did perhaps what any woman would have done, when she took Merrylips by the hand and drew her into the cottage. Merrylips went meekly, because the woman was so large and determined, and Rupert went because Merrylips went.
Almost before they knew how they had come there, they both were seated in a warm chimney-corner, in a well-scoured kitchen. They had a big bowl of porridge to share between them, and the blowzy woman and her old father, who had sat nodding by the fire, were asking them a heap of questions.
Merrylips ate the hot porridge in silence, but Rupert told the story that he had planned to tell.
"My name is called Hal Smith," he said glibly, "and this is my cousin John. And we were put to school down in the Weald of Sussex, but we are fain to fight the—the Cavaliers—" he tried hard to say "wicked Cavaliers," but in that he failed utterly—"so we have quitted the school and are bound unto the army."
"Lawk! The brave little hearts! Didst ever hear the like?" cried the woman, and filled their bowl afresh.
But the old father chuckled.
"Runaways, I's wager!" said he. "Pack 'em back to their schoolmaster, Daughter Polly."
Of such a danger Rupert had never dreamed. For the first time he saw now that any grown folk would surely try to send them back to the school about which he had made up his clever story. He had told one fib from choice, and he found now, as often happens, that he must tell many more from necessity.
"Nay, we are no runaways," he said, and he spoke fast and trembled a little. "Our cousin Smith hath sent for us—he that is our guardian. He is with the Parliament army. 'Tis to him we are going."
"And where might 'a be serving, this kinsman Smith ye speak of?" croaked Polly's old father.
Rupert wished to answer promptly, as if it were the truth that he told. So he spoke the first word that came into his head.
"At Ryeborough," he said. "'Tis at Ryeborough our kinsman Smith doth serve. Ay, and we must lose no time in going unto him. Come, up wi' thee, John, and let us trudge!"
He slipped from his seat, and caught Merrylips' hand. He was no less eager than she to be safe out of the cottage.
But as the two children rose, they saw, for the first time, a tall young man in a smock frock, who was standing in the outer doorway. He must have heard every word that they had said, for he and the blowzy woman, Polly, were looking at each other wisely.
"Didst hear him say Ryeborough, Brother Kit?" cried Polly. "'Tis happy chance they came to us this hour, poor dears!"
"Ay, happy chance indeed!" the young man said, and clapped Rupert on the shoulder.
"Come, my fine cock!" he cried. "What say ye to riding to your journey's end, instead of shogging on your two feet?"
"I—I would be beholden unto no one!" stammered Rupert, in great alarm. "Let us go, sir!"
He fairly pleaded, and Merrylips, who was frightened to see him frightened, bit her lip and tried not to cry.
"Thou seest, Kit, the little one is near forspent, poor lamb!" said kindly Polly, and stroked Merrylips' tumbled hair.
"Don't 'ee be afeard now, pretty!" she comforted. "'Tis no trouble ye'll be to my brother Kit. He is drawing two wain-loads of horse-litter to Ryeborough this night. He'll find space to stow ye in the wain, all snug and cosey, and in the morn ye'll be safe with your cousin Smith."
"I ha' seen him in Ryeborough market-place," said Kit. "Smith! 'Tis a thick-set fellow, and serveth in my lord's own troop of carabineers."
When Rupert and Merrylips heard this, they were filled with terror. But they had to look pleased. They dared not do anything else. If they were to say now that they did not wish to go to Ryeborough, that they had no kinsman named Smith, and that all of Rupert's story was a lie, they were sure that they should suffer some dreadful punishment.
In sorry silence they took the penny and the gingerbread that kind Polly gave them. They shuffled out into the raw, chill twilight of the street. They found that already the great wains had rumbled up and were halted at the door. They saw no help for it, so they let themselves be lifted up by Brother Kit and the stout carters, and placed among the sheaves of straw beneath an old horse-blanket.
"Have an eye to 'em, Kit Woolgar!" Polly called from the doorway, where she stood with a cloak wrapped about her. "And don't 'ee let 'em down till 'ee come to Ryeborough, else they'll perish by the way."
And to Rupert and Merrylips she called:—
"Good speed to ye, Hal Smith, and little John! Your troubles all are ended now, dear hearts!"
But Rupert and Merrylips, with their faces turned to the dreaded town of rebel Ryeborough, thought that in very truth their troubles were just beginning.