“I can hear it quite well here,” says she.
“Why,” says he, “I can’t stand here and bawl it at the top o’ my voice, cousin.”
“My ears are very quick,” she answers.“I daresay I shall hear it if you whisper it.”
“But ’tis of the last importance,” he says, “and besides, I have friends with me.”
“So I perceive,” she says, coolly. “And neither you nor they are coming within the house. So you better tell me your business at once, Master Dacre.”
I heard him smother an oath. “Ah!” says he. “So you are still as vixenish as ever, fair cousin? But we are coming into the house, and so you had best be civil to us while we are without, lest——”
“Spare your threats,” she says scornfully. “I care no more for them than for your civility. And so, if you will not tell me your business I shall shut the window.”
“Oh,” says he. “Pretty treatment indeed! Then let me tell you, mistress, that here are with me certain troopers from Fairfax’s regiment who carry a warrant for Sir Nicholas’s arrest. What do you think to that, eh? Gadzooks, I came here to see that the old knight suffered no hurt or inconvenience, and that yourself was protected, and you treat me like a thief! Come, cousin, ’tis a sad business, but war is a strange matter. You had best open the door at once—these troopers are not used to be kept waiting.”
“Then let them go whence they came,” shesays. “They will wait here long enough if they don’t.”
“Then you will not open?” he says, uneasily, and as if he could not believe his ears.
“I said so once,” she answers.
“Why, then,” says he. “I am sorry for you, cousin. I can do naught to help you if you continue in your obstinacy. These troopers will break in upon you, and——”
“Oh,” she says, “a truce to your talk, Master Dacre. Let me say a word to you,” she says. “Now listen; if you and your precious companions dare to lay a finger on door or window of this house we will shoot you for the vermin that you are—and so now we understand each other, Master Anthony Dacre,” says she, and slams the casement in his face.
“Bravo, cousin!” says I. “Bravo! There was no need to give orders—your own——”
“Oh,” says she, “spare your breath, sir. I spoke for myself, not for you.”
“Ah!” says I.“Was it indeed so? Then perhaps, mistress, you will be good enough to show me where those arms are with which you are going to exterminate the vermin in the courtyard? For I doubt not, in spite of all your brave words, that they will attack the house, and in that case we had best be prepared to make good your promise.”
And by that time, being returned to the great kitchen, I called everybody together, men and women, and held a council of war. And first of all we looked to the arms. In the hall there was a sufficiency of muskets and fowling-pieces, ranged in racks, together with numerous pistols, most of which were in bad need of cleaning. It turned out that Jasper and one of the lads had lately cast a quantity of bullets, and that three small kegs of gunpowder had been brought in but the week previous. We were therefore fairly ammunitioned, and I immediately armed every man amongst us with a gun, a powder horn, and twenty bullets, bidding each to shoot so straight, if need arose, that not a shot should be wasted. And this done, I proceeded to take a rapid survey of our position, and to consider how we might best turn it to account.
Now, my uncle’s house was one of those ancient buildings which stand on three sides of a square, and the courtyard was enclosed on all but one side—the north—where it was separated by a high wall and wide gateway from the road. There was a great advantage to us in this, for the only door which opened from the courtyardto the house was that at which Alison had parleyed with Anthony Dacre, and as it stood exactly in the centre of the inner side, it could be commanded from the windows of the other sides of the square. It was a strong door of stout oak, liberally studded with great nails, and secured by as many bolts and chains as there are Sundays in a year, and we now further strengthened it by dragging a great table into the porch and driving it between the door and the wall. This done, there was naught but to post two of my small army in such positions as would command a view of the door from without. Fortunately for us, there were on the ground floor, looking into the courtyard, but two windows, and both of these I instantly secured in such a fashion that nothing but a battering-ram could have broken through them. On the next floor there were more windows, and at two of these, one on each side the courtyard, I stationed Gregory and Jasper, with orders to fire on anyone approaching the door that stood full in their view. These two were favourably placed, for they could keep the wall of the house between themselves and the enemy, and at the same time point their pieces through a broken pane of the windows.
Of the safety of the door which gave access from the courtyard to the house I had little fear; but there were three other doors which caused me some uneasiness. To the front of the house, looking towards Barnsdale and the south, there was a great door which opened into my uncle’s flower-garden; on the right hand, opening out of the room in which he kept his dried herbs, was a smaller one through which he often passed to walk along a sheltered path; on the left-hand, opening out of the scullery, there was a door into the stable-yard. Now Anthony Dacre knew all these doors as well as I did, and would obviously select the weakest for his point of attack. The first thing to do, then, was to strengthen each of them. To this we at once set to work, bringing down great bedsteads, heavy chests, and whatever loose wood we could find in the house, and piling it up in such a fashion that if pressure were brought to bear on it from without, it would but drive our barricades tighter against the stout walls within. But this done, a great difficulty presented itself to my mind—all these doors being flush with the several walls in which they were built how could I place my men where they might command them? I had found that easy in the case of the courtyard door, because two sidesof the house overlooked it, but it was impossible as regarded the other three doors, and all I could do was to post men at the corner windows of the second floor with orders to fire on the enemy if they appeared to be approaching the doors with mischievous intent.
Now, as to the windows—I suppose that when they built these old houses (my uncle had often boasted to me that his was erected in the days of I forget which Henry) they had always in their minds the fear of a siege, and so the windows on the ground floor were as few as could well be, and each was supplied with exceeding strong bolts and bars that closed over stout shutters of oak. I saw to it that each was further barricaded and strengthened by the piling up against it of the heaviest furniture in each room—and when that was done there appeared to be no more that we could do towards making the old house stronger than it was. So now I took a survey of my arrangements, and found that they worked after this fashion: Gregory and Jasper were posted at upper windows on each side of the courtyard, commanding the porch-door; John and Humphrey Stirk were at windows looking out into the front garden; the two oldest lads, Peter and Benjamin, were stationed at a window which overlooked thestable-yard; and the third lad, Walter, being very young, I ordered to run from one post to the other, supplying them with ammunition, or bringing them food or drink, as need required. The window overlooking the door which opened into the west garden I reserved to myself, feeling that an occasional surveillance of it would suffice. To Barbara and one of her maids I gave charge of the commissariat arrangements, and bade her stint none of my little army, having previously satisfied myself that there was provender in the house sufficient to last us six weeks. As for my fair cousin I requested her to attend upon Sir Nicholas, and to employ the other maid’s time in the like direction.
And now, all these matters being attended to—and it had taken some little time, I promise you!—and the enemy being still debating matters amongst themselves in the courtyard—I had taken occasional observations of them through the window above the porch—I suddenly turned dead tired and sat me down on the settle in the kitchen, feeling curiously faint and hungry. I had sent an ample ration and a mug of ale to each of my men, but I myself had tasted neither bite nor sup for I know not how many hours. “Alack, Barbara, old lass!” says I, thinking therewas nobody but herself and myself in the kitchen, “times are altered since I was last here! If my poor uncle had been on his legs instead of in his bed, I should ha’ been invited to eat and drink—faith, I ha’ touched naught since——”
But at the word Mistress Alison steps out o’ the gloom, and in the glare of the firelight I saw her cheek aflame with the rarest crimson. “I crave your pardon, cousin!” says she—’egad, ’twas the first time she had so styled me since I entered the house—“I have forgotten my duty because of all this trouble. Barbara, see that Master Coope is served—nay,” she says, “I will see to it myself,” and she bustles about, and brings me meat and drink, and sets it with her own fair hands on the table before me. “Cousin,” says I, looking hard at her, “I thank you. I am sorry,” I says, and then stops, not knowing what more, nor what I had meant, to say. “But I thank you,” I says. “Indeed, I am both hungry and thirsty.”
“I am sorry, too,” she says—but she did not look at me, her eyes being fixed on the fire—“I should have invited you to eat.” She stood there, lingering, and still she would not look at me. “I fear,” she says at last, and faith, there was a still brighter crimson in her cheeks,“I fear I have been somewhat hasty—and—and—I thank you for—for what you are doing for Sir Nicholas, cousin Richard,”—and suddenly she turned, and gave me one shamefaced sort o’ look, and fled up the stairs.
Heigh-ho! I believe it was then that I fell in love with thee, my sweet! Lord! what a colour, and what eyes she had!
Being now considerably refreshed, and having reviewed my situation as I sat at meat, with the result that I made up my mind to attend to the business of the moment, and leave all thoughts of the future until such time as they must perforce be settled with, I arose from the table and went the round of my men, whom I found very vigilant and ready to discharge their several duties when need arose. It was then close on midnight and we had been invaded for nearly two hours, but so far, the enemy had remained quiescent, and had not so much as re-demanded our submission. He continued very peaceful, and appeared to have temporarily withdrawn his forces. When I reached the window at which I had posted Gregory, I found that the courtyard was empty, and thatall was so still and peaceful, save for the sighing of a somewhat angry wind, that no one would have guessed we were withstanding a siege. But there was naught to reassure us in that.
“What are they after, think you?” says I, as I peered over Gregory’s shoulder into the darkness without. “They seem to have drawn off altogether at this present moment.”
“I warrant me they are not far away,” says he. “They put their heads together and talked awhile after Mistress French had spoken with them out of the window, and then they wheeled about and passed the gate. And it’s my firm opinion, Master Richard,” he says, “that at this moment they’re foddering their horses in our stables, though being appointed to stand here,” he says, “I can’t decide that matter for myself.”
“I’ll go round to the east side o’ the house,” says I, and set off along the corridors to the window at which I had stationed Peter and Benjamin. “Now, lads,” says I, coming up to them, “any signs of the enemy?”
“They’re in the stables, Master Richard,” says Peter. “We watched them come in at the gate from the lane an hour ago. First, there was four came together, and then three more followed after them. And they’ve turned out our horses,” sayshe, pointing to some dark shapes that stood disconsolate enough in the middle of the stable-yard, “and put their own beasts in the stalls.”
The door of the stable stood opposite the window at which we were watching. It was one of those doors that have two halves, and the upper one they had left open, so that we had an excellent view into the stable. They had lighted the lanthorn that hung from the roof, and I could just see the candle that swealed and sputtered in it. Now and then, one or other of Anthony’s gang passed and repassed the square of light. They were evidently making their cattle comfortable on my uncle’s provender, and the thought of it raised within me a roguish desire, such as a lad might have felt, to spoil their sport. The swinging lanthorn and its glare of yellow light gave me a thought. “Isn’t Master John Stirk a famous hand with his gun?” says I to the lads. “I have surely heard something o’ the sort in bygone times,” I says. “A rare hand, surely,” says Peter. “A’ can hit——”
But I was hurrying along the corridor towards the post at which I had stationed John and Humphrey. I passed near my uncle’s chamber on the way, and from a little distance saw Mistress Alison with her hand on the latch of the door.She bore a bowl of some sick man’s slop or other, and had no eyes for me, so I went on to find the two brothers leaning against the wall by the garden window, and gazing in silence into the gloom outside. “All’s well here,” says John, as I came up. “We heard footsteps on the path once, but ’tis a good hour ago, and they must ha’ withdrawn for awhile.”
“They are in the stables,” says I, “foddering their beasts on Sir Nicholas’s corn, no doubt. And since all’s quiet at present,” I says, “come you with me, John—I lay Humphrey will guard your post for a moment,” and I led him back to where Peter and Benjamin stood staring at the light in the stable. “You are a good marksman, they tell me,” I says. “Can you hit that lanthorn, do you think?”
“Aye,” he says, fingering his musket, “but not so well from here as from below. There’s a little window in the scullery, Master Richard, that I ha’ sometimes made use of to talk with the maids. I could hit it from that.”
“Come on,” I says, and we went downstairs. “We will give these rascals a lesson,” says I, as we turned into the scullery. “Now, John, mark the candle, and out she goes.”
He opened the little window—’twas no morethan a pane of dull glass a foot square—and pushed out the barrel of his musket. On the instant the explosion followed, and the light in the stable disappeared. We heard the crash of the lanthorn as it was driven against the wall, and the sudden stamping and kicking of frightened horses.
“’Tis as dark as the grave,” says John, closing the window carefully. “Let ’em feel their way to the corn-bins,” he says, and we turned to go to our several posts again.
However, before we were at the head of the great staircase there came new developments, which rather startled me and gave a different turn to affairs. The silence of the night—which had seemed twice as deep since John Stirk discharged his piece—was suddenly broken by what appeared to be a regular fusilade, and at the same moment a loud crashing of glass and splintering of woodwork gave us notice that at last we were under fire. Close upon their noise followed a shrill scream from the corridor where we had left Peter and Benjamin.
“Somebody’s hit!” says I, and we ran along the passages. Ere we had taken many steps our feet grated on broken glass or kicked against fragments of woodwork. At the corner of thecorridor leading to Sir Nicholas’s room stood Mistress Alison, holding a lamp above her head and gazing towards us with anxious looks, “No lights!” roars I. “Go back, cousin—you give them a chance to see us,” and I hurried Peter and Benjamin along the passage into an inner chamber, where we might strike a light without danger. “I’m hit somewhere,” says Peter. “I can feel the blood running.” But it was only a deep scratch that he had got in his cheek, from which the blood ran pretty freely into his neckcloth. “Off you go to Barbara for a clout,” says I, and went back with John and Benjamin to the corridor. The night air was blowing in raw and cold, for all the window was shot away. “It’s a lucky thing we wasn’t in front on’t, Master Richard,” says Benjamin. “They must ha’ fired all their pieces at it.”
There was no great harm done by this first brush, though I was somewhat regretful when I saw the wreck that I had not allowed our enemies to burn their candle unmolested. However, they made no attempt to relight the lanthorn, and as we could see naught of them in the stable-yard, I made Benjamin fetch a great mattress from the nearest sleeping chamber, and with this we blocked up the open casement as well as wecould. But we had no sooner got it into place than new matters called for my attention. A door opened suddenly and we heard a scuffle of voices, first Mistress Alison’s, then Sir Nicholas’s, thin, piping, but exceeding angry. “Here’s more to do!” says I, and set off for my uncle’s room, followed by John Stirk. “This,” says I to myself, “will be harder work than fighting,” but I went boldly within the chamber. The old knight, startled, doubtless, by the firing, had got himself out of bed and now sat on the side, furious because my cousin endeavoured to persuade him to return to his pillows.
“What the murrain!” says he. “’Od’s wounds, wench, am I a child to be—’od’s death,” he says, suddenly catching sight o’ me, “nephew Dick, as I live! So we are in the hands of the rebels, Alison? Faith, I never thought to see a nephew o’ mine assault me in my own house!”
“Sir,” says I, “I am here to defend you, and I present you with my very humble duty.”
But something seemed to twitch his poor old face as I spoke, and he fell back on his bed. “Oh,” says my cousin, “leave us, sir, leave us, and send Barbara to me quick!” And so John and I bundled out of the chamber, sore bewildered.
During the remaining hours of that night our enemies gave us no more trouble than the mere observing of their movements. It appeared to me from what I could make out, as I went from one man to another, that they remained in the stable, and were of an uncommon quietness. “Hatching their plans, no doubt,” says I, and was not unthankful that things wore their present complexion. I had no great love of fighting in the dark, and I considered, moreover, that our chances were better in the daytime, when we could use our eyes to some advantage, than in such a night as that when we could scarce see aught at twenty yards’ distance. However, though they made no further motion towards attacking us, I saw to it that a strict watch was kept, and moved from post to post constantly, lest any of my sentinels should forget themselves and fall asleep. So the night passed, and in a somewhat sombre and melancholy fashion, for there was a mournful wind without, and in my uncle’s chamber the old man himself lay grievously sick and in constant need of Mistress Alison’s ministrations.
About six o’clock in the morning, a grey light being then apparent in the eastward heavenabove Went Hill, I found John and Humphrey Stirk with their chins resting on their muskets, and their mouths as wide agape as young blackbirds are when the old bird comes home with a worm in her beak. “Ha!” says I. “By your faces, lads, ’tis high time you were relieved. Away with you to the kitchen, and bid Barbara see to food and drink for you while I keep guard. We are ill-mannered, but you shall have an hour’s relief while there’s a chance,” I says, bundling them off, and feeling that it were scurvy behaviour to treat volunteers less considerately. So they thanked me and withdrew, and having been on my legs all night I sat me down near the window and stared at the grey sky outside. “Faith!” says I, yawning, “here’s a pretty state of things that I have come into. Look upon thyself, Dick,” I says, “as a dead man, over whom they have already said ‘Ashes to ashes.’ For thou wilt certainly be shot if thou stayest here, and hanged if thou dost escape. However, there’s no use in repining nor in reflecting. Shot or hanged, what matter a century hence?”
And yet, as I sat there, I could not help but reflect, though I can with great honesty say that I did not repine. I think it must have been myliking for philosophic questionings that made me reflect in the fashion I did, for, in sooth, all my thoughts turned to the curious manner in which one small event or trifling circumstance had led to another, until at last I was landed in a very quagmire of serious result. But there I flew away at another tangent, and began to ask myself whether there is any event or action so trifling or unimportant as not to have any effect on our happiness or misery. Certainly the events of the twenty-four hours then drawing to a close had seemed small in themselves, and were yet productive of results the most serious. If my horse had not fallen dead by the wayside I should not have stayed to think under the trees at Barnsdale, and if I had not stayed there I should not have thought of Reuben Trippett’s farmstead and in due course gone there, and if I had not gone there I should never have heard of Anthony Dacre’s plot, and if I had remained in ignorance of that I should certainly not have been sitting in my uncle’s manor-house that morning waiting for daybreak, and feeling myself already a lost man. “Alas!” I sighs, coming at last to a definite opinion,“’tis most true that no event is so trifling as to be wholly unimportant. There is naught so sure as that one thing leads to another—the mischief is that we never know what that other is going to be.”
I think I had gotten into this state of mind during my patrol of the house during the night. At first my thoughts had perforce been directed to the immediate necessities of the hour; but as things grew quiet, I could not help thinking about my own peculiar predicament. And the more I thought, the more certain was I of the result of my present proceedings. “Thou art a dead man!” says I to myself, shaking my head mournfully. “There is not a shadow of doubt about that. As dead as if old Tobias had turned his first shovelful——”
But at that moment—and it was a truly welcome relief, for I was, indeed, waxing melancholy—the door of my uncle’s chamber opens gently, and out into the corridor steps Mistress Alison. She shut the door behind her with a pretty care, and seeing me in the grey light, came softly in my direction.
“Good morning to you, cousin,” says I, rising from my chair and approaching her. “I trust my uncle is somewhat recovered by this time?”
“He sleeps, sir,” says she, still very formal.“He has had but an ill night, and once I feared he was near to death. But he is now asleep, and I have left Priscilla watching by him for awhile.”
By this time we stood over against the window, and I saw that her face was pale with watching, and that much anxiety was on it. She looked without, and something in the grey skies and dark fields made her shiver and draw the cloak about her shoulders closer together.
“You are weary, cousin,” says I. “Will you not seat yourself in this chair?”
She looked at the chair and at me, but made no offer to take it.
“I was going downstairs,” says she, meditatively, “but——”
“Why,” says I, innocent enough to all outward seeming, “I have dismissed John and Humphrey for a brief rest, and it would not be amiss to have some one here besides myself, so that if there is need, we can give alarm without leaving the post. With the dawn,” says I, “they will no doubt commence operations against us.”
“I will remain in that case,” she answers, and sat her down in the chair that I had just left “We must all do our part to defend the house,” she says, more to herself than to me.
“Aye,” says I.
After that we were for some moments verysilent. For my part, I leaned against the wall watching her. After a time she looked at me gravely.
“How long will this continue, think you?” she says. “Will it be for some time, or shall we be relieved speedily?”
“Why,” says I, “I see no prospect of relief, cousin. These fellows will doubtless be reinforced, and they will then make a desperate assault upon us. However,” I says, seeing her grow pale at the thought, “we will hold out as long as we can, and we will do our best to contrive some way of escape for you and Sir Nicholas. Faith!” I says, “I don’t see how it’s to be done, seeing that we are hemmed in; but I’ll talk it over with John and Humphrey—the three of us may contrive something. As for myself,” I says, dolefully, my thoughts going back in their original direction, “I am a dead man already, and so naught that concerns myself matters.”
“A dead man?” she says, staring at me. “What do you mean by applying such a term to yourself?”
“Why,” says I, “I mean what I say. You see, cousin, I was sent north with a despatch from Cromwell to Fairfax, and——”
“Sir,” she says, suddenly clothing herself witha great dignity; “I should prefer to know naught of your rene——” But there she checked herself. “I think you are loyally serving my uncle,” she says, “and myself,” she adds, after a pause; “and I—I thank you for it, Master Coope; but——”
“But I am still a renegade, eh, cousin?” says I, bitterly. “Why, so I am, I daresay, in your eyes. But, egad! a bit o’ sympathy comes amiss to no man; and if one may not expect it from a relation—but I’ll not intrude my confidence upon you,” I says, and I swung round on my musket, and looked out of the window. I think her eyes must have followed me, for after a moment she spoke, and when I turned she was looking at me with some curiosity and concern.
“If you put it in that way,” she says, meditatively, and she looked at me again. “I should be sorry to appear unkind to—to anyone who had done me a service,” she says slowly.
“Oh, no thanks, cousin!” says I. “I should have done the same for any woman. Faith, you did not think that I came here to save you from insult because you happened to be my mother’s sister’s daughter?”
Now, beshrew me if I did not see her catch her pretty lips together between her teeth as if in a sudden vexation!
“I am aware that I am naught to Master Richard Coope,” she says, cold and icy.
“I should have done it for any woman,” says I. “So no thanks, if you please, mistress.”
And I looked out of the window again. The dawn was come by that time, and the east was covered with a broad belt of dun-coloured light. When I looked round again I could see her face quite plainly under the hood of her cloak.
“But this danger of yours?” she says, looking at me and then away from me. “I think I—perhaps it might be well—will you tell me what it is?” she says, turning her eyes full on mine again.
“Why,” says I, “’tis just this, cousin. I bear a despatch from Cromwell to Fairfax—here it is, stitched in my doublet. I should have delivered it last night, and because I have not done so, I shall certainly be hanged if Fairfax or Cromwell get hold of me. ’Tis a most grave dereliction of duty that cannot be pardoned. I shall most certainly die for it. So that you see, between being shot here and hanged before Fairfax’s tent door, I have a pretty choice; and faith!” I says, “it causes me some concern, for I am not tired of life, I assure you.”
“And if you had not heard of our danger, you would have delivered your despatch last night?” she says.
“Why,” I says, “I was horseless; but I should have made shift into camp somehow.”
“And did you reflect?” she says, rising from her chair and standing before me, “upon what the consequences would be if you came here to warn us instead of going forward with your despatch? You knew that it was a question of our safety against your own——?”
But what else she meant to say—and I scarce knew what she was anxious to get at—I had no opportunity of learning, for at that moment there rang out a discharge of musketry from the fold, answered by the shots from the corridor where Peter and Benjamin were stationed. “That’s a beginning,” says I, and ran off, leaving her there without further ceremony.
I found Peter and Benjamin reloading their pieces near the window which we had barricaded a few hours previously, and immediately called on them for news of what had happened. It appeared that as daylight came they had watched the stable door jealously, and at lasthad counted six of our assailants emerge from it with their muskets. They had gazed up at the window which they had already shattered, and evidently catching sight of the lads’ faces—for we had left spaces through which we might observe whatever went on without—they had discharged their pieces at it. Peter and Benjamin had discharged theirs in return as their assailants crowded back within the stable door, but they were doubtful as to whether they had hit any of them, though Peter thought he had seen one man clap his hand to his side as he hurried into shelter.
“But they were in and out again like a lot o’ rabbits on a sand burrow,” says Benjamin. “You saw their fronts and backs within a minute.”
“Poor sort of fighting,” says I, and bidding them stand to the post, I went to find John and Humphrey.
It was by that time broad daylight, and I therefore thought it well to go round the house and see how matters stood with us. I found all my men at their posts, some of them a little sleepy with their long vigil, but all keen enough to resent the enemy whenever he thought fit to attack us. I contrived that every man should be relieved in turn, and sent those thus dischargedfrom duty to the kitchen, where Barbara saw to their needs. I satisfied myself that all our defences were in good order, and that there was little chance of the besiegers breaking in upon us at any of the weaker spots in our armour. In fact it seemed to me, after going round the house for the second time, that unless some extraordinary measures were adopted against us, there was no reason why we should not hold our own against a whole troop as long as our provisions lasted.
I was engaged with John Stirk in further strengthening the defence of the window that opened into the herb-garden, when Peter came to tell me that a man was waving a flag from the stable door. “A flag of truce,” says I, and hurried away to observe this new action. I then saw that the enemy had tied a clout to the shaft of a fork, and were waving it over the half-door of the stable, with an evident desire to provoke our attention. “We’ll play the game fairly,” says I, and hastily improvised a flag, which I bade Peter thrust out of the window while I went to find Mistress Alison. “They desire a parley,” says I, “you must play spokeswoman again, if you please, cousin.”
“I had rather do aught than bandy words with Anthony Dacre,” says she, following me unwillingly. “Put the words into my mouth, if you please, Master Richard.”
However, there was no need for her fears on this occasion, for instead of Anthony Dacre there appeared one of the troopers in answer to our signal. He came across the fold, carrying his flag of truce in his right hand, and looking somewhat quizzically at the barricaded window. “A queer fellow this,” says I, observing him closely. “We should have some sport with him.”
Mistress Alison looked at me with a little flash in her eyes. “Sport!” she says, and seemed as if she would have said more. But the man had by that time come close beneath the window, and stood looking up at it. He was a tall, gaunt fellow, with as long a face as ever I saw, and a mouth that seemed to twist itself naturally to the pronouncing of long words.
“Within there!” say he. “Ye that do suffer investment, and are as captives in the beleaguered city—does anybody hear me or not?”
“I hear you, sir,” says Mistress Alison, putting her face to the opening which we had contrived. “What is your wish?”
“Why, mistress,” says he, trying to catch a glimpse of her,“as for wishes they are casual things, and I have long eschewed them. I wish naught save to accomplish my duty——”
“I have no time to stand here chattering,” says Mistress Alison. “Come, your errand!”
“I come as a messenger of peace,” says the fellow. “Know, maiden, that my name it is Merciful Wiggleskirk, and that my nature is no less merciful than my name. I am a man of war, and yet my soul hankers exceedingly after peace——”
“Am I to stand listening to this babbler all day?” says my cousin to the rest of us. “Come, fellow!” she says sharply. “What is it that you want?”
“I desire your surrender, mistress,” says he. “There are some of us”—he cocked his eye in the direction of the stable—“that do carnally desire the sight and smell of blood, which are matters that I cannot abide. Therefore, I come, merciful as my name, to bid you yield yourselves in the interest of peace. Let there be peace between us, I pray you,” he says, rolling his eyes towards the window.
“Is that all you have to say, fellow?” asks my cousin.
“Verily, I have spoken, maiden,” says he.
“Then,” she says,“you can go back and say that there will be much blood—yea, enough to turn your squeamish stomach sick, Master Merciful Wiggleskirk, unless you and your fellow rascals depart on the instant. What! you come like thieves and robbers, and then insult us with your offers of mercy—oh!” she says, “get you within shelter, lest we fire upon you.”
“Peace, peace!” he says. “Peace, mistress. Woe in me that I should——”
“Get your musket in order, Peter,” says she in a loud voice. Whereupon the long-faced man uttered a deep groan and hastened back to the stable, holding his flag above his head. Mistress Alison turned away without a word, and I was following her when John Stirk stopped me.
“Master Dick,” says he, “there’s a thought strikes me that’s worth meditating upon. They’re all in the stable now, and there is but one door through which they can come, and this window commands it. Why should they be allowed to come through that door, Master Dick? Why,” says he, “shouldn’t they have a taste of besiegement?”
“Faith!” says I, “a rare notion, John. Why did it not strike me before? However——”
“Humphrey and me,” says he,“posted at this, window will stop any of them from coming through yonder door.”
“And so you shall,” I says, and gave the necessary orders, transferring Peter and Benjamin from the window where we stood to John and Humphrey’s old post over the garden door. And since we now knew with certainty where all our enemies lay concealed, I withdrew Gregory and Jasper from the courtyard windows and bade them take the rest of which, being oldish men, they were somewhat sore in need. This done, I went back to John and Humphrey, and waited the next move of the game.
Now, after Merciful Wiggleskirk had returned to the stable there was for some time no sign of any action on the part of the enemy, both halves of the door being shut to behind him. But at the end of an hour, the upper half was swung open, and Jack Bargery’s head and shoulders appeared. He was evidently in dispute with those inside, for he appeared to be talking in a loud voice, and shook his head fiercely as he fumbled at the latch of the lower half of the door. “There would be little loss to anybody if a bullet found its billet in his ugly carcase,” says I. “Fire, Humphrey.”
“With good will,” says he, and pulled the trigger.
The fellow at the stable door staggered and clapped his hand to his shoulder. “Three inches too high,” says Humphrey musingly, and began to reload his piece. “First blood to us, anyway,” says John, “and ’twill read them a lesson.” And so it did, for none of them showed so much as a nose-end at the stable door for the next six hours. Instead of being bottled ourselves we had bottled them fairly. And yet, as I knew quite well, we were enjoying but a temporary respite, for naught could be easier when the darkness came on, than for one of them to slip away to Pomfret and bring assistance from Fairfax’s camp. I marvelled more than once that they had not done this the previous night, but I suppose Anthony Dacre had considered that matters would go better for him if he conducted his operations with a small posse instead of a large one, the command of which would doubtless have been in other hands than his.
The day wore on in quietness, John and Humphrey keeping a sharp watch on the stable door. From the time that Jack Bargery had dropped back with a bullet in his shoulder until late in the afternoon there was no sign of our assailants. But as it grew dark, the top half of the door was thrown open again and the flag once more thrust out. I was on guard at the moment,the brothers being gone to the kitchen for a bite and sup, and I immediately despatched a messenger for Alison while I waved our own flag through the window. It was Merciful Wiggleskirk who once more appeared, and he came across the ford as Alison answered my summons.
“I fear I must trouble you again, cousin,” says I. “’Tis another flag of truce. Will you make inquiry of the messenger as to its meaning?”
She frowned as she put her face to the opening. “Well, fellow?” says she. “You are come again, eh?”
“On a merciful errand, mistress,” he answered. “In truth, we are at war, but should our enmity extend to the very animals? I pray you, mistress, to call a truce while we lead our horses across the ford to drink at the trough. The poor beasts do thirst exceeding sore—yea, even as the hart desireth——”
“No blasphemies, fellow,” says she, and turns to me inquiringly. “What shall I say?” she asks.
“No,” I says. “’Tis but a trick that they may get out of the stable. Once under cover of the house wall they may go where they please untouched. In their present position we have them safe so long as daylight lasts.”
“Yes,” she says, meditatively.“Yes—but—there’s a notion struck me,” she says, looking at me with a queer expression in her eyes. “Your danger, Master Richard—I think I see a way out of it. Would there be any harm if we allowed this man to water his horses, one at a time, on condition that none of his fellows leave the stable?”
“No great harm in that,” I says, not quite seeing what she aimed at, but having some faith in her woman’s wit; “but assure him that if any of the others leave the stable they will be shot.”
She turned to the window. “Listen, fellow,” says she. “You may bring out the horses yourself, one at a time, and water them at the trough, but if one of your companions shows his face we shall shoot him.”
“Agreed, mistress,” says he. “’Tis for the poor animals.”
“And hark ye,” she said, “there is a little window near the trough—place yourself near it when you come with the horses—I have something to say to you.”
I saw the man’s face light up with a greedy look, as if he saw some prospect of gain to himself. “I understand, mistress,” says he, and hurried off to the stable, while Alison turned to me again.
“I don’t comprehend your meaning, cousin,” I says. “What is your notion?”
“That you should bribe this trooper to carry your despatch forward to Fairfax,” says she. “It will but be a day late—and you can explain the cause of delay—and—and—it may be the saving of your own neck, Master Richard,” she says.
I stood very still looking at her. “Hah!” says I, at last. “So you’ve been thinking of that, cousin. Why, that’s kind——”
“Nay,” she says, with a heightened colour, and her eyes that had wandered away coming back to me, “let us have no misunderstandings, pray! I could ill bear the thought,” she says, “that any man should come to his death through rendering me a service. And so if you think it a wise plan——”
“I’ll try it,” says I, and made haste to summon John and Humphrey back to their posts. “If any man leaves the stable door except Wiggleskirk,” I says, “shoot him on the instant,” and with that I ran down to the little window that opened on the fold just against the great horse-trough. As I waited there for Wiggleskirk, I cut the stitches that secured the despatch to my doublet. Then I bethought me that it might be well to write some explanation of my conduct,so I hurried to the kitchen and found pen and ink and hastily wrote a few lines on the back of the paper. “The bearer of these,” I wrote, “delayed by untoward circumstances, sends them forward by the only available opportunity.” “That’s all that’s possible,” says I, and went back to the window.
Wiggleskirk was there, keeping the horse and the pump between him and the stable. When he caught sight of my face, he started. “Hist!” says I, “come closer, but make no sound. Hark ye, lad, art willing to carry something to Fairfax at Pomfret for a handful of gold pieces?”
“To Fairfax?” he says, with some suspicion. “And what may it be, master?”
“A despatch from General Cromwell,” says I, “that should have been delivered last night if I had not been surrounded in this fashion.”
“From Cromwell to Fairfax?” says he, his mouth agape. “Why, that’s very serious matters, master. A handful of gold, did you say? But what shall I tell——”
“There’s naught to tell,” says I. “Here’s the despatch, and there’s the money. Now, will you take it, saying naught to your companions out there, and asking no questions?”
He looked at the packet, and then at thehandful of gold that I had laid on the window-sill. “Agreed!” says he. He looked curiously into my face. “As soon as it’s dark,” he says. “Rely on me—though ’faith, I don’t understand——”
“There’s no need that you should,” says I, and shuts the window in his face. I gave a sigh of relief as I drew the bolts to—I had, at any rate, thanks to Alison, done something to rid myself of the despatch and to secure its delivery.
About eight o’clock on that, the second night of our investments, I sat eating my supper in the parlour, all my men being at their posts, and everything appearing of a satisfying nature. I had carefully watched the stable door during the evening, and had observed that when the darkness was fairly settled down there came out a man leading a horse which he mounted at the fold-gate. I made no doubt that this was Merciful Wiggleskirk, and that he was riding for Pomfret on a double mission. Although I recognised him for one of them that make a trade of canting hypocrisy I had reason to believe that he would deliver the despatch to Fairfax. That, then, was one errand; the other, I took to be the seeking of reinforcement for Anthony Dacre and his party. But in good sooth, it troubled me not at all that there was a prospect of ourbeing attacked in greater force, for I had all along seen that if the enemy chose to invest us seriously we must ultimately give way to him. It had been my hope that Anthony would fail to find further help from Fairfax, or that he would think it dangerous to his own plans to seek it. Indeed, I was not without hope that the morning might find us with naught but Anthony and his own rascals to deal with, for it seemed to me more than likely that if Fairfax made enquiry in the matter of Merciful Wiggleskirk, he would withdraw him and the other trooper from Anthony’s service. But whether he did or not was all one to me, for however things turned I was in a corner, and saw no way of getting out of it.
As I drained the last dregs of ale from my tankard there came to my side the lad Walter, that had run about the house on one errand or another since the siege began, and whom but a moment before I had sent up to John Stirk with a message. He seemed in haste, and there was that in his face which made me start to my feet. “’Tis Mistress French,” says he; “she wishes to see you at Sir Nicholas’s chamber-door—I heard her say something to Barbara about his dying,” he says, staring at me.
“Say naught to the other men,” says I, and started for the stairs. I passed Peter and Benjamin at the garden window. “Keep a good watch, lads,” I says. “They may attempt something under cover of the night,” and I turned from them to see my cousin advancing to meet me. There was no lamp in the corridor, but she held a candle in her hand, and by its dim light I saw that her face was anxious and that she had been weeping. “You sent for me, cousin?” says I, and for the first time since I had entered the house I took her hand in mine. “I hope my uncle is no worse,” I says. “May I not see him?”
“He has been asking for you,” she says. “I think—nay, I am sure—that he is dying. He has been very quiet this long time, and has said but little. And his mind, somehow, seems so much clearer than it has been for some days—it frightens me to see how calm he is.”
“Why,” says I, wishful to comfort her, “do not lose heart, cousin, for it may be that he is somewhat better. But let me into his chamber since he has asked for me.”
She opened the door and motioned me to step within. There was no more light in the room than came from the logs burning in the hearth,but I saw that Barbara sat by the bedside, and that my uncle lay between the sheets very straight and still. “Here’s Master Richard come to see you, Sir Nicholas,” says Barbara, and got out of her chair with a sign to me to take it. “A’s failing fast,” she whispers, as I drew near the bed; “but a’s bent on seeing thee, Master Dick.”
I took the chair and leaned over towards my uncle’s face. “I hope I find you somewhat recovered, dear sir,” says I, feeling, as I think most men feel at such moments, very strange and ignorant of what to do or say. “Your pain, now—I trust ’tis abated since——”
“Is it Dick?” says he, opening his eyes and trying to turn his head on the pillow.
“Yes, sir,” says I.
“Ah!” says he, very slow and feeble in his speech. “I hear great news of thee. We are withstanding a siege, it appears. I could wish to give thee some advice as to what should be done, nephew.”
“I shall receive it gladly and with much respect, sir,” says I, “if it be not too much trouble for you to speak with me on these matters.”
“No trouble,” says he,“no trouble, nephew—in these times we must lay aside personal——”
But here Mistress Alison steps up to the other side of the bed and lays her hand on his. “Dear sir,” says she, very gentle and pitiful—faith! I could not have thought she was the same woman that had treated me to more than one sharp speech—“you will do yourself harm to talk so much. If you will but rest——”
“Pish!” says he, in his old peevish fashion. “Let me be, wench. Dick and me has matters to talk of. Hark ye, Alison, leave us to ourselves awhile—you women are for ever in the way when there is business of importance to discuss. See them out of the chamber, nephew, and come back to thy seat.”
I looked questioningly at Mistress Alison across the bed. She put the tip of her finger to her lips and nodded towards the door. As I held it open for her, “I shall remain just without,” she whispers. “If he seems worse, Master Richard, call me at once.” “Depend upon me,” says I, and shut the door on her and Barbara, and went back to the bedside. My uncle had managed to turn his head on the pillow and he stared hard at me as I approached. “Sit thee down, nephew,” says he.“’Tis poor work talking of serious matters when women are about. And how goes the siege, Dick—shall we withstand the enemy?”
“Why, sir,” says I, “I see no reason why we should not. I have taken care that all our defences are strengthened and that everything is in proper order.”
“Aye,” he says, “aye. Alison has told me as much—she praised thy generalship. I could like,” he says, “to know how all this came about. What led to it, nephew?—these women, they have no talent for telling a straight tale.”
“Why, sir,” says I, “there’s little to tell”—but I began and told him how I had chanced to come into possession of Anthony Dacre’s plot, and of what had befallen us since then. He lay there, very quiet, listening to what I had to say, and making no more comment than an occasional curse on Anthony for his villainy. And when I had finished, “Thou hast done very well, nephew,” says he. “’Twas well thought of to warn us of our danger. So thou didst join the rebels, eh?” he says with a straight look at me.
“Yes, sir,” says I. “Since my duty seemed to need it—though, indeed, I was sorry to do aught that was against your wishes,” I says, looking straight back at him.
“Well, well,” says he. “I must not reproach thee now, Dick; and, besides, I have known some good men that have thought as thou thinkest on these matters. But I wish thou hadst been plain with me—there was something of the lawyer in thy manner of departing, nephew,” he says, favouring me with another keen look.
“Why, dear sir,” says I, very loth, as you may conceive, to excite or vex him, “it was for your own sake that I so behaved myself. And besides,” I says, “you would have locked me up if I had dared to proclaim myself.”
“Swounds!” says he, with a spark of the old fire in him, “and so I would, egad! Well, well, ’tis too late now to kick sleeping dogs, and I’m pleased with thee, Dick, for thy recent conduct. The lass Alison seems mighty taken with thee.”
“I was afraid,” says I, “that Mistress Alison looked on me as a renegade, and could ill abide my presence.”
“Pish!” says he, “’tis a woman’s way. I’ll not deny,” he says,“that she has had no liking for thee, because the wench is all for His Majesty, and we love not to have a renegade in the family, nephew Dick. But thy conduct of the last day or two,” he says, “has changed her thoughts of thee, an I mistake not. There is a cordial by thee, lad; give me a drink—I grow somewhat faint.”
“Dear sir,” says I, “I am sure that it is not good for you to talk. Let me go away, and do you compose yourself to sleep.”
“Faith!” says he, making a wry face as he drank the cordial, “I shall have sleep enough enow, nephew. Let me talk while I can. What thinkest thou of thy cousin, Dick?” he says, giving me a sharp glance.
“Why, sir,” says I, “I think she is the handsomest woman I ever saw.”
“Ha!” says he. “Thou thinkest so, eh? I have left her all I have,” he says, still keeping his eyes on mine. “Every acre and every penny,” says he.
“I am unfeignedly glad to hear it, sir,” says I, “for I am sure she deserves it.”
“It would ha’ been thine,” he says, “if thou hadst behaved thyself.”
“One must pay for misbehaviour, sir,” says I.
“I am not sure,” says he, plucking at the bedclothes, “that I should not alter matters if there were a chance.”
“Pray you, sir,” says I,“don’t think of such a thing. I am very well provided for,” I says. And so I was, seeing that I was pretty sure to be either shot or hanged within the next few days.
“Well, well,” says he. “But things will turn out well. I wish thee to marry Alison, nephew Dick.”
“Sir!” says I.
“Swounds!” says he. “Thou art not already married?”
“No, dear sir,” says I.
“Then there is no need for astonishment,” says he. “And, egad, she is as proper a wench——”
“Sir,” says I. “She is the handsomest woman that ever I saw, but I fear she is beyond me. And besides,” I says, “I don’t think she likes me.”
“Pish!” says he. “Thou art but a lad, and therefore knowest naught of women. There is but one way of wooing, and that is to be masterful. Let ’em see that you’re master,” he says, with a chuckle that came very feeble, “and they’re won.”
“Faith!” thinks I. “If that’s so I must ha’ won my fair cousin already, for I have been masterful enough with her, in all conscience! I will bear your advice in mind, sir,” I says aloud.
“I would like to see it,” he says, as if to himself.“But my days are numbered, nephew. Howbeit, if I die before this trouble comes to an end, I trust to thee to see thy cousin in safety.”
“Sir,” says I. “I will defend her to the best of my power. Trust me for that,” I says, laying my hand on his own, which was very cold and white.
“Well,” says he, “that’s a comforting thought to me, Dick, for the lass has served my old age with much diligence and kindliness, though, egad,” he says, “she has the devil’s own temper, an you stroke her the wrong way. But there’s a thing that I want to say to thee, Dick—bend down to me—ye may both be in need of money ere long, for things wear a troubled complexion. Hark ye, lad, there is gold and jewels hidden away under the hearthstone of the room where my dry herbs are kept. Use them as you think fit,” he says, “there may be occasion to carry them about your person—there’s more families than one homeless at this time, and nobody knows what may happen.”
“Have no fear, sir,” says I.
“Swounds!” says he.“What’s the good o’t? A dying man hath neither fears nor hopes, nephew. And faith, I think I have maybe talked too much; call in the women, Dick,—Alison is the rarest nurse.”
So I hastened to the door for my cousin and Barbara, and bade them enter. Sir Nicholas turned his head to me again. “See to thy defences, lad,” says he. “Egad, I wish I could be with thee!” But there his face turned very white, and the women ran to him, so I softly closed the door and went off to see to my men.
I was in some expectation during the rest of the night that a reinforcement of the besiegers might after all take place, and that we should be severely assaulted under cover of the darkness. The hours went by, however, without anything of this sort happening, and as it wore towards early morning I made up my mind that the night was to be utterly peaceful. We had kept such observation as we could upon the enemy, and it was my firm conviction that some of them at least had escaped from the stable during the night and withdrawn to more comfortable quarters. But since we had no assurance that an assault might not be made upon us at any moment, I kept the men to their posts, and myself patrolledthe house ceaselessly, only pausing now and then to call at my uncle’s chamber-door and enquire for his health. About three o’clock in the morning as I stood at the head of the great staircase resting myself a brief moment, old Barbara came out of the kitchen and called my name softly. “What is it?” says I, going down to her in the darkness, which we preserved strictly, lest the besiegers should have any profit of our lamps and candles. “Is there aught afoot, Barbara?”
She beckoned me within the kitchen. “Master Dick,” says she, pointing to the door that stood open ’twixt us and the scullery, “there is the curiousest tapping noise on the little window by the horse trough. Tap-tap-tap, tap, tap, it goes,” she says. “I ha’ listened to it this ten minutes. It must be a sign, Master Dick,” she says fearfully. “To be sure, the blind in your poor uncle’s chamber fell this afternoon, but signs may come more than one at a time, eh, Master Dick? Hark you—why, ’tis there again.”
I stepped lightly towards the scullery door and heard the sound she spoke of. “Sign or no sign,” says I, “I’ll see what it is, Barbara,” and I stepped within. But the thought occurring to me that this might signify some message from MercifulWiggleskirk I turned and closed the door. “Best not let in any light from the kitchen,” says I, “lest the enemy see it.” So I left Barbara there and went to the little window alone. After a time the tapping came again. Whereupon, keeping under cover of the wall, I put out my finger and tapped lightly in response. An answering knock coming from without, I undid the bolt and spoke. “Who’s there?” says I. But lest it should be some trick of the enemy I kept closely behind the wall, for I had no mind to show my face at the window and receive a bullet in eyes or mouth.
However, as I had conjectured, it was Merciful Wiggleskirk that stood without “’Tis I, master,” says he, “and I have tapped and tapped this half-hour. I do naught by halves,” he says, “and I could not ha’ rested until I had told you how I sped with my mission.”
“I am beholden to you,” says I. “You delivered the despatch in safety?”
“It is in the hands of Fairfax himself, master,” says he. “Great news or small, he knoweth every jot and tittle on’t.”
“That’s well,” says I, much relieved. “I thank you, Master Wiggleskirk.”
“Why,” says he,“I need naught of that sort, master, for you paid me excellent well. But I am new come from the camp, and since you are one of us——”
“What does that mean?” I says.
“I heard that you were of the true political creed,” says he. “Faith, how could you be aught else, seeing that you carried a despatch from Cromwell?”
“I perceive your meaning,” says I. “Go on, pray.”
“Why,” he says, dropping his voice to a whisper, “as you are one of us I thought it well to tell you that ere sunrise there will be a troop here to reduce this place to submission. I was accompanied to camp,” he says, “by Master Dacre, who seems to have ingratiated himself with Colonel Sands, and now you are to be closely invested and reduced. And, hark ye, Master Coope,” he says, “if I were you I would——”
What more he would have said was lost to me, for at that moment Anthony Dacre’s voice called across the fold. “What the murrain, Wiggleskirk! does it take an hour to water thy beast?” says he, and we heard his steps on the frosted straw as he came towards us. I shut the window and the trooper moved away. I caught sight of his figure and of Anthony Dacre’s outlined against the darkness beyond, and for a momentwas tempted to see whether a bullet from my pistol could not pick out the right man. But on second thoughts I refrained, and went back to the kitchen and thence to the upper storey to resume my patrol, encourage my men, make enquiry after Sir Nicholas, and wait for daybreak.
Now, when daybreak came there was ample proof that Merciful Wiggleskirk’s recent statement had been based on truth. The house was surrounded by troopers, who rode hither and thither as if to take observation of their position. There was an officer with them who plainly assumed command—as for Anthony Dacre I saw naught of him nor of his gang. I went round the posts which I had already established and exhorted my men to be brave and vigilant. The lads Peter and Benjamin were somewhat concerned because of the array now set before them, and so instead of leaving them together I made Peter exchange places with Humphrey Stirk, thinking that one tried man and a lad together was better than two untried lads. Gregory and Jasper I found unconcerned and ready—they had more faith in our defences, I think, than I had.
Having assured myself that all was in order for the struggle which I now saw we must quickly engage in, I went to Sir Nicholas’s chamber tosee how he did. He was by that time sinking fast, having undergone a great change at cockcrow. Alison and Barbara were in close attendance upon him, and as there was naught that needed my immediate attention outside I prepared to stay with them for a little while. But then came John Stirk knocking at the door and asking if I were within. I joined him in the corridor on the instant. “The officer,” says he, pointing to the window overlooking the garden. “He is without there, flying a flag, and demanding to speak with you, Master Coope.”
“Did he ask for me by name?” says I, mightily surprised. “He must have meant Sir Nicholas.”
“He said Master Richard Coope,” says John. “There’s a fine lot of ’em without,” he says, as we went towards the garden window, and, faith, he was right there, as I saw when I looked out. Whether it was that he wished to make a brave show and frighten us into resistance, I cannot say, but he had drawn up all his men in the garden, where their horses’ feet made sad havoc with my uncle’s trim lawns. The officer himself sat his horse a little in advance of the rest, and when I appeared at the window was giving some order to a man who stood at his side bearing a white flag.
I opened the window and leaned out. “You have asked for Richard Coope, sir,” says I, looking down at the officer. “What is it that you wish with me?”
“You are Master Richard Coope?” says he, looking at me with some curiosity.
“The same,” says I.
“I would like to hold parley with you, Master Coope,” says he. “I am Captain Holdsworth, and am charged with your arrest, and with that of Sir Nicholas Coope and his niece, Mistress Alison French. Do you purpose to submit yourselves to me?” says he, as polite as if he asked me whether I preferred white bread to brown. “Or shall we be under the necessity of using force?” he says, first cocking his eye at the brave show of thirty odd troopers behind him, and then glancing at me with an arch expression.
“Why, sir,” says I, “I fear you will be under the necessity you speak of, for we have no mind to submit ourselves to you. Why should we?” I says, giving him back a smile as gracious as his own.
“This is Fairfax’s own hand,” says he, producing a paper, and pointing to some writing in the corner.
“I am so far away from it that I do not recognise it, sir,” says I.
He put the paper within his doublet. “Can we not talk matters over, Master Coope?” says he.
“With all the pleasure in the world, sir,” says I. “That is,” I says, “if you love to discuss matters in so public a fashion.”
He looked round him. “But I don’t,” he says. “Come, Master Coope, we are gentlemen and can trust each other. I will dismiss my men to a distance and you shall come down and talk with me—or I will enter the house and talk with you. I am quite indifferent,” he says.
“Why, sir,” says I, “’tis, I assure you, no easy matter for me to leave the house or for you to enter it. But if you will dismiss your forces, or give me your word of honour that you will not suffer them to molest or hinder me, I will come into the garden and talk with you right willingly.”
“I will do both, Master Coope,” says he. And therewith he turned and dismissed his men, bidding them retire into the meadow that lay beyond the garden. “You have safe conduct out and in,” he says, looking at me. “I await your coming with eagerness, Master Coope.”
As I passed my uncle’s door Alison came out of his room and laid a hand on my arm. “Barbara tells me you are going to hold parley with the enemy,” she says.“You will have no dealings with him in the way of surrender?” she says, looking at me very hard.
“Surrender?” says I, smiling. “Come, cousin, what do you take me for?”
“I have better thoughts of you than that,” says she. She turned and looked at the door that separated us from Sir Nicholas. “He is near the end,” she says sadly. “Let him die a free man, Richard, even if the old house is tumbling about his death-bed.”
“Give me your hand on it, cousin,” says I, strangely moved. She put her hand in mine and looked into my eyes. “I trust you,” she says, and withdrew her hand, and went back into Sir Nicholas’s chamber.
I called John Stirk to me as I ran down the stairs, and with his aid I moved sufficient of the barricade that secured the window in the herb-room to enable me to get out. “Wait there with your musket until my safe return, John,” says I, and hurried round the corner of the house into the flower-garden. The officer waited me there, leaning against his horse. “So we are to talk, sir,” says I, coming up to him.
“And I am glad of the chance, Master Coope,” says he, frankly.“This is a strange business, and to tell you the truth, though I must and shall do my duty as a soldier. I am loth to be mixed up in it.”