[image]"'Lady Ingilby, come to see whether her husband lives or is dead for the King.'""I cannot tell you, madam. There are so many dead, on both sides of the battle.""But I must know. Give us free conduct through the lines, my friend here and myself; it is a little thing to ask."The Parliament man was muffled in a great-coat, an unwieldy hat drawn over his eyes. But Christopher knew him, though Ingilby's wife, her heart set on one errand only, saw beyond and through him, scarce knowing he was there save as an obstacle to progress down the lane."It is granted," said the Roundhead, "if you permit me to bandage your eyes until we come to the place where Sir William fought. I know the place, because our men brought in high tales of his strength and courage.""But why the bandage?" she asked peremptorily."Because, between here and where he fought, there are sights not good for any woman's eyes.""Ah, tut! I've nursed men at Ripley who were not good to see. Their wounds were taken for the King, and so were pleasant."They went through what had been the centre of the King's army—went through all that was left of the Whitecoats, thick-huddled with their faces to the sky. For a moment even Ingilby's wife was dizzy and appalled. There was no scent of summer hedgerows now. Then she took hold again of her unalterable courage."Oh, they died well. Lead on."They came to the place where Sir William's company had fought; and the sun, gaining strength already to drive through the mists of last night's thunderstorm, showed her the faces of many folk remembered, but not her husband's."I thank God," she said simply. Then, as she turned to retrace her steps, the inbred courtesy of the woman surmounted the pain that had gone before, the passionate thanksgiving that followed. "I thank you, too, for conduct through the lines. What is your name, that I may remember it in my prayers?""At Ripley they would name me Noll Cromwell. I ask no thanks, and need none."It was all muddled and astounding, as the battle of last night had been. The man she had scolded not long ago at Ripley—the man whose soul she had whipped raw, though she did not guess it—had offered courtesy. For this hour, at any rate, Cromwell was a mystic, seeing with the clearer vision and knowing the kind lash of penance. Since this wild campaign began, drawing him from his quiet estate in Rutland, he had known no happiness till now. This woman had flouted him; yet he was glad, with an amazing gladness, to succour her in need.A man came running, and said that General Cromwell was needed in Tockwith village, where some trouble had broken out among his men. The mystic disappeared. The Cromwell of sheer flesh and blood showed himself. "Trouble, is there?" he snapped. "I've a short way with trouble of that sort. As for you, Lady Ingilby, the password isEndeavour, and I would recommend you to secure your retreat at once."With a half-defiant salute he was gone, and, as they came again to the place where the Whitecoats lay, a party of Roundhead horsemen, riding by, halted suddenly."You are on the King's side," said the leader, with a sharp glance at Christopher. "I am Captain Murray, at your service, of Leslie's horse. I know you because you all but killed me in that last rally Rupert made. What, in the de'il's name, are you doing here—and with a lady?""We are under safe-conduct through the lines. Cromwell gave us the wordEndeavournot five minutes since.""Well, I need you, as it happens. There are many of your dead in Wilstrop Wood, and General Leslie has a soft heart—after the fight is done—like most Scotsmen. He sends me to find a King's man who can name the dead. 'They have wives and bairns, nae doot,' said Leslie in his dry way, 'and ill news is better than no news at a', for those who bide at hame.'"Lady Ingilby was not sorry when her request to go with Kit was refused. After all, she had breakfasted on horrors and could take no further meal as yet."If he is there, Christopher," she whispered, "you will take me. If you do not find him, well. Either way, there is the God above us."When they came to Wilstrop Wood—Lady Ingilby staying on the outskirts with three dour Scotsmen as a guard of honour—the wind was rustling through the trees. And from the ground there was a harsher rustle—the stir and unrest of men who could not die just yet, however they longed for the prison-gate of flesh to open.The red-gold sunlight filtered through the cobwebs spun from tree to tree of Wilstrop Wood. And even Murray, who counted himself hard-bitten, stood aghast at what he saw. The underwood was white with bodies of the slain.A great wrath and pity brought Kit's temper to a sudden heat. "Captain Murray," he said, "these dead have been robbed of all that hides their nakedness. I say it is a foul deed. Better have lost the fight than—than this.""You will tell it to the world?" stammered Murray."Yes, if I win free of this. It shall be blazoned through the North, till there's none but knows of it."Murray halted irresolute. If the Scotsman had been of grosser make, Kit would have joined the company of King's men who slept in Wilstrop Wood. It was easy, with the men he had at call, to silence this hot-headed youngster."That is your resolve?" he asked slowly."D'ye doubt it? Captain Murray, it is a loathsome business enough to pick the pockets of the dead, but to take clothes and all——""The Scots had no hand in it, I tell ye. Our lads hae over-muckle care for the dead of either side. But I aye mistrusted those Psalm-singing rogues. Will ye take it at that?""There's a sickness in the middle of me," said Christopher, with tired simplicity. "What is your business with me here in Wilstrop Wood?"Murray conquered his first impulse to put Kit's tongue out of harm's way once for all. "As I told you, sir, General Leslie's heart is tender as a maudlin woman's—now the battle is won, and his own wounds patched up—and needs must that you identify the dead."Christopher, who seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, was a true Dalesman. By letting the world see the froth and bubble of the upper waters, he hid the deeper pools. As they went through the wood, the sunlight filtering through on ground for ever to be haunted, he knew, by the whiteness of their skins, that the greater part of the fallen were gentry of the King's. Instinct, quick to help a man, told him it was unwise to admit the loss of so many officers to the cause, though he knew many faces there—faces of men who had shared fight or bivouac with him somewhere between this and Oxford."They must rest where they lie, for all the help I can give you," he said impassively, "and may God have mercy on their souls.""Sir, I wonder at your calm," snapped Murray; "but now I understand. All you Papists have that quiet air of ease.""Up in Yoredale we heard nothing of the Pope, but much of prayers for those who crossed the fighting-line ahead of us."Murray thought he made nothing of this lad; yet at heart he knew that, through all the moil and stench of Marston, he, too, was going back along the years—going back to the knees of his mother, whose prayers for him he thought forgotten long since.As they were making their way through the wood again, a slim youngster, stark naked, lifted himself on an elbow and babbled in his weakness. "Have we won, friend?" he asked, looking at Kit and Murray with starry, fevered eyes."Aye," said Murray, Scottish pity warring with regard for truth. "We've won, my laddie.""Then unfasten this bracelet from my wrist. Oh, quick, you fools—the time's short! Take it to Miss Bingham, out at Knaresborough yonder, and tell her I died as well as might be. Tell her Marston Moor is won for the King."And with that there came a rattle in his throat. And he crossed himself with a feeble forefinger."Dear God," said Murray, "the light about his face! You simple gallants have the laugh of us when it comes to the high affair of dying."Christopher said nothing, after closing the eyes of a gentleman the King could ill afford to lose. And so they came out of Wilstrop Wood, and found Lady Ingilby again."Does he lie there?" she asked sharply."I did not see him," answered Kit."I am almost—almost happy. You did not find him? Come; they'll be needing us at Ripley."CHAPTER XX.THE HOMELESS DAYS.Marston Moor was fought and ended. A mortal blow had been struck at the King's cause in the North; and yet the Metcalfs, rallying round Lady Ingilby at Ripley, would not admit as much. The King must come to his own, they held, and Marston was just an unlucky skirmish that mattered little either way.York capitulated, and Squire Metcalf, when the news was brought at supper-time, shrugged his shoulders."It's a pity," he said. "We must get on without the good town of York—that is all."Lady Ingilby glanced across at him. For the first time since Marston Moor she smiled. "And if all is lost, will you still believe that the world goes very well?"A great sob broke from the Squire, against his will or knowledge. "Lady Ingilby, there are fewer Metcalfs than there were," he explained shame-facedly. "I went through Marston Fight, moreover. It is not my faith that weakens—it is just that I am human, and my courage fails."None spoke for a while. The mistress of Ripley, on her knees in the chapelry, or busying herself about her men's needs, had learned what the Squire had learned. Those who had gone through the stress and anguish of the late battle, and the women who had waited here between closed walls for news to come, all caught the wonder of this moment. It was as if some Presence were among them, interpreting the rough strife of sword and pike."If there were two Metcalfs left of us all," said the Squire, his big voice humorous in its gentleness, "we should still believe that all was well with King Charles. And, if one fell, t'other would be glad to be the last to die for His Majesty."The moment passed. It was too intimate, too filled with knowledge of the over-world, for long continuance. Metcalf filled his glass afresh. The men were glad to follow his good example."Your health, Lady Ingilby—your good health," said the Squire.While they were drinking the toast, the outer door was opened hurriedly, and a little, wiry man came in. His face was tired, and his clothes were stained with rain and mud."Gad, here's Blake!" laughed Kit Metcalf. "Blake, the rider—I saw him bring the Metcalfs into Oxford."Blake nodded cheerily. "Life has its compensations. I shall remember that ride down Oxford High Street until I die, I think. Lady Ingilby, I've a message from your husband, for your private ear."A great stillness had come to Lady Ingilby, a certainty of herself and of the men about her. "He was always a good lover. You can give his message to the public ear.""He escaped from Marston with twenty men, and hid in Wilstrop Wood. There was carnage there, but your lord escaped. And afterwards he fell in with Prince Rupert, returning with volunteers from the garrison at York. He bids me tell you he is safe.""Was that all his message, Mr. Blake?""No, it was not all, but—but the rest is for your private ear, believe me.""I—am very tired. My courage needs some open praise. What was my lord's message?"Blake stooped to whisper in her ear, and Lady Ingilby laughed. Keen youth was in her face. "Gentlemen, it was a vastly tender message. I am proud, and—and a woman again, I think, after all this discipline of war. My husband bids me hold Ripley Castle for as long as may be, if the Metcalfs come.""There never was much 'if' about a Metcalf," said the old Squire. "Our word was pledged before ever Marston Fight began.""Oh, he knew as much, but you forget, sir, that many hindrances might have come between your pledged word and yourselves. You might have died to a man, as the Whitecoats did—God rest them."The Squire's bluntness softened. The tenderness that is in the heart of every Yorkshireman showed plainly in his face. "True. We might all have died. As it is, there are many gaps that will have to be explained to the goodwife up in Yoredale."And again there was a wonder and a stillness in the hall, none knowing why, till Lady Ingilby broke silence. "Such gaps need no explaining. They are filled by a golden light, and in the midst of it a rude wooden cross, and over it the words 'For Valour.' There, gentlemen, I weary you with dreams. Lest you think me fanciful, let me fill your glasses for you. It will do you no harm to drink deep to-night, and the sentries are ready at their posts."They could make nothing of her. Gay, alert, she went about the board, the wine-jug in her hands. The message from her lord that Blake had whispered seemed to have taken a score years from her life, as strong sun eats up a rimy frost. When she bade them good-night and passed out, it was as if a spirit of great charm and well-being had gone and left them dull.On the morrow there was work enough to keep them busy. The fall of York had sent Cromwell's men like a swarm of bees about the land. Dour and unimaginative in battle, they ran wild when victory was theirs. Men who had been plough-boys and farm-hinds a year since were filled with heady glee that they had helped to bring the great ones low. Some of their officers could not believe—honestly, each man to his conscience—that there was any good or usefulness in gentlemen of the King's who wore love-locks because it was the habit of their class, and who chanced to carry a fine courage under frivolous wearing-gear.The Squire of Nappa was roused, somewhere about five of the clock, by a din and shouting from the courtyard underneath his bed-chamber. At first he fancied he was back on Marston Field again, and raised a sleepy challenge. Then, as the uproar increased, he got out of bed, stretched himself with one big, satisfying yawn, and threw the casement open.The summer's dawn was moist and fragrant. His eyes, by instinct, sought the sky-line where, in Yoredale, hills would be. Here he saw only rolling country that billowed into misty spaces, with a blurred and ruddy sun above it all. The fragrance of wet earth and field flowers came in with the warm morning breeze. He was a countryman again, glad to be alive on a June day.Then he returned to soldiery, looked down on the press of men below, and his face hardened. "Give you good-morrow, Cropheads," he said gently."And who may you be?" asked the leader of the troop."A Mecca for the King. Ah, you've heard that rally-call before, I fancy. Your own name, sir?""Elihu Give-the-Praise.""Be pleased to be serious. That is a nickname, surely."A storm of protest came from the soldiery, and Elihu took heart of grace again."Idolaters and wine-bibbers, all of you," he said, vindictiveness and martyrdom struggling for the mastery. "Since I forswore brown ale and kept the narrow track, men know me as Elihu Give-the-Praise.""Then, as one who relishes brown ale, I ask you what your business is, disturbing a Riding Metcalf when he needs his sleep?""Our business is short and sharp—to bid you surrender, or we sack the Castle.""Your business is like to be long and tedious," laughed the Squire, and shut the casement.He crossed to the landing and lifted a hale cry of "Rouse yourself, Meccas! What lads you are for sleeping!" And there was a sudden tumult within doors louder than the din of Puritans outside. It was then, for the first time, that Lady Ingilby, running from her chamber with a loose wrap thrown about her disarray, understood the full meaning of clan discipline.The men who answered the rally-call were heavy with sleep and in no good temper; but they stood waiting for their orders without protest. When the Squire told them what was in the doing, their faces cleared. Sleep went by them like a dream forgotten. The Roundheads underneath fired some random shots, as a token of what would follow if there were no surrender; and, in reply, spits of flame ran out from every loophole of the Castle front. They were not idle shots. Elihu Give-the-Praise, with a stiff courage of his own, tried to rally his men, in spite of a splintered arm; but a second flight of bullets rained about them, and panic followed."A thrifty dawn," said the Squire of Nappa, as if he danced at a wedding.For that day, and for three days thereafter, there was little sleep within the Ripley walls. Parliament men, in scattered companies, marched to replace the slain and wounded. There were sorties from the Castle, and ready fire from the loopholes overhead; and in the courtyard space lay many bodies that neither side could snatch for decent burial. There was not only famine sitting on the Ripley threshold now, but pestilence; for the moist heat of the summer was not good for dead or living men.In the middle watch of the fourth night, Squire Metcalf heard a company of horsemen clatter up to the main gate. He thrust his head through a casement of the tower—the loopholes had been widened in these modern days—and asked gruffly the strangers' errand."Surrender while you can, Nappa men," said the foremost horseman."It is not our habit.""There's a company of Fairfax's men—a thousand of them, more or less—within call.""Ay, so are a thousand cuckoos, if you could whistle them to hand. Who are you, to come jesting at the gates?""Nephew to Lord Fairfax, by your leave.""That alters matters. I'm Metcalf of Nappa, and aye had a liking for the Fairfaxes, though the devil knows how they came into t'other camp. Their word is their bargain, anyhow."Fairfax laughed. The sturdy bluntness of the man was in keeping with all he had heard of him. "That is true. Will you surrender—leaving all arms behind you?""No," said the Squire of Nappa. "Bring your thousand cuckoos in, and I promise 'em a welcome."He shut the casement, called for his son Christopher to take his sentry-place, and sought Lady Ingilby."There's a good deal to be done in five minutes," he said, by way of breaking the news to her."Oh, you think only of speed these days, and I—believe me, I am tired.""'Tiredness butters no haver-bread,' as we say in Yoredale. There are two ways open to us—one to surrender by and by, the other to ride out to-night.""But my husband—-oh, he left me here to hold the Castle.""For as long as might be. He'll not grumble when he learns the way of our riding out. Better leave Ripley now, with honour, than wait till they starve us into surrender."He had his way. In silence they made their preparations. Then Metcalf lifted a noisy rally-cry as he led his men into the courtyard. And the fight was grim and troublesome. When it was done, the Metcalfs turned—those who were left—and came back for the womenfolk; and some of the white horses, saddled hastily, fidgeted when for the first time they found women's hands on the bridle.Michael was one of those who gave his horse, lest a woman should go on foot; and at the courtyard gate, while the press of folk went through, he halted suddenly."Kit," he said, "there's li'le Elizabeth braying as if all her world were lost. 'Twould be a shame to forget her, after what she did for me at York."Christopher was young to defeat. "It's no time to think of donkeys, Michael," he snapped, humour and good temper deserting him in need."I defend my own, lad, whether Marston Moor is lost or won. I'm fond of Elizabeth, if only for her skew-tempered blandishments."When he returned from the humble pent-house where they had lodged the ass, the Squire had got his company ready for the march, and was demanding roughly where Michael was."Here, sir," said Michael, with the laugh that came in season or out."Making friends with your kind, lad," snapped the other. "Well, it's a thrifty sort of common sense."The odd cavalcade went out into the dewy, fragrant dawn. About the land was one insistent litany of birds—merle and mavis, sleepy cawing of the rooks, and shrill cry of the curlews and the plover. A warm sun was drinking up lush odours from the rain-washed fields and hedgerows."Eh, but to see my growing corn in Yoredale!" sighed Squire Metcalf. "As 'tis, lads, we're heading straight for Knaresborough, to learn how they are faring there."Joan Grant had been content, till now, to sit Christopher's horse and to find him at her stirrup."I do not like the Knaresborough country," she said, with gusty petulance."Not like it? Their garrison has kept the Cropheads busy.""Oh, ay, Master Christopher! There's nothing in the world save sorties and hard gallops. To be sure, we poor women are thrust aside these days.""What is it?""What is it, the boy asks. I thought you grown since Yoredale days; and now, Kit, you're rough and clumsy as when you came a-wooing and I bade you climb a high tree—if, that is, you had need to find my heart."They rode in silence for a while. Christopher thought that he had learned one thing at least—to keep a still tongue when a woman's temper ran away with her. But here, again, his wisdom was derided."I loathe the tongue-tied folk! Battle, and audience with the King, and wayfaring from Yoredale down to Oxford—have they left you mute?""Less talkative," he agreed; "I've seen men die."For a moment she lost her petulance. "You are older, graver, more likeable. And yet I—I like you less. There was no need—surely there was no need to—to let others tell me of the ferry-steps at Knaresborough.""The ferry-steps?""So you've forgotten that poor maid as well. I pity Miss Bingham now. Why do women hate each other so? Instead, they should go into some Sisterhood of Pity, hidden away from men.""They should," assented Christopher; "but few of them do, 'twould seem.""And now you laugh at me. Oh, I have heard it all! How pleasantly Nidd River runs past the ferry-steps. She is beautiful, they tell me.""I have no judgment in these matters. Ask Michael—he was there with me in Knaresborough."Michael had chanced to overtake them at the moment, Elizabeth following him like a dog. "Nidd River—yes, she is beautiful.""It was Miss Bingham we talked of. I—oh! I have heard such wonderful tales of her. She glamours men, they say."Michael, for a breathing-space or two, was silent. Then he recaptured the easy-going air that had served as a mask in harder times than this. "She glamoured me, Miss Grant—on my faith, she did—whenever Kit would leave her side. The kindest eyes that ever peeped from behind a lattice.""Miss Bingham seems to be prodigal of the gifts that heaven has given her.""True charity, believe me—to spend what one has, and spend it royally.""She seems, indeed, to be a very perfect hoyden. Oh, I am weary! Marston Moor is lost. Ripley is lost. Are we going to ride for ever along dreary roads?""Three of us go on foot—Kit the baby, Elizabeth and I. We have no grumbles."She turned on him like a whirlwind. "If the end of the world came—here and now—you would make a jest of it."[image]"'If the end of the world came—here and now—you would make a jest of it.'""'Twould sweeten the end, at any rate. There's Irish blood in me, I tell you."From ahead there sounded a sharp cry of command. "Hi, Meccas, all! The enemy's in front."War had lessened the ranks of the Metcalfs, but not their discipline. Michael and his brother clutched each a horse's bridle, after helping the women to alight, and sprang to the saddle. Even Elizabeth shambled forward to take her share of hazard, and Joan found herself alone. And the gist of her thoughts was that she hated Kit, and was afraid that he would die.She watched the Metcalfs spur forward, then slacken pace as they neared the big company coming round the bend of the road. The old Squire's voice rang down-wind to her."King's men, like ourselves? Ay, I see the fashion of you. And where may you be from, gentles?""I'm the late Governor of Knaresborough, at your service.""And I'm the Squire of Nappa, with all that the Cropheads have left of my Riding Metcalfs."The Governor saluted with extreme precision. "This almost reconciles me to the loss of Knaresborough, sir. We have heard of you—give you good-day," he broke off, catching sight of Michael and Christopher. "We have met in happier circumstances, I think."CHAPTER XXI.SIR REGINALD'S WIDOW.There is nothing so astounding, so muddled by cross-issues and unexpected happenings, as civil war. Not long ago Marston Moor had heard the groans of Cavaliers as they lay naked to the night-wind, and prayed for death in Wilstrop Wood. York had surrendered. The garrisons of Knaresborough and Ripley, met together on the dusty highroad here, were weak with famine and privation. Yet they stood chatting—the ladies of both garrisons passing laughter and light badinage with the men—as if they were gathered for a hunting-party or falconry. The intolerable pressure of the past months was ended for a while, if only by disaster; and from sheer relief they jested.Joan Grant, in the middle of the chatter, edged her mare near to a sprightly horse-woman who had just dismissed Michael with a playful tap of her whip across his cheek."You are Miss Bingham? Ah, I guessed it.""By what token?""By your beauty, shall we say? Gossip has so much to tell about it, and about the Vicarage garden, with Nidd River swirling past the ferry-steps."They eyed each other with the wariness of duellists. "The good Vicar is fortunate in his garden," assented Miss Bingham, with the most charming courtesy."And in his water-nymphs, 'twould seem. I think you would be like some comely dream—on an April evening, say, with the young leafage of the trees for halo.""Oh, it is pleasant to be flattered! But why this praise of me? We were strangers not an hour ago.""I have heard so much of you. You were so kind to the men who sortied from Knaresborough and returned with wounds. You sat by the ferry-steps—all like a good angel—and bound their hurts afresh when they smarted. Oh, indeed, we have heard of your pleasant skill in healing."While they faced each other, there came the thud and racket of horse-hoofs down the road. The rider drew rein amid a swirl of dust, cleared his eyes with a hand that trembled, and looked from one face to another. His tired face lit up when at last he saw the Governor of Knaresborough."Give you good-day, sir. I was riding to seek aid from you.""The devil you were," growled the other. "The man sups lean who trusts to my help, Graham. Knaresborough's in other hands since—since Marston.""It would be. I had forgotten that. But you're here.""What is your need, lad?""A few men to help me, over at Norton Conyers. I rode to ask if you could lend them me.""All of us, if we're needed. We were jesting on the road here, for lack of other occupation. What is it? But, first, is your uncle safe—tough Reginald Graham? I love him as I love the steep rock-face of Knaresborough.""It was this way. My uncle would have me near him at Marston. We were with Rupert on the right wing, and were close behind one of the Riding Metcalfs—I know not which, for they're all big men and as like as two peas in a pod—and saw him cut Cromwell through the throat. We were together when we broke the Roundheads and pursued too far. It was when we came to the ditch again, and found Leslie there with his Scots, that I lost Sir Reginald. I took a wound or two in the stampede that followed, and was laid by in a little farmstead near Wilstrop Wood. The good-wife was kind to me—said she had lost a bairn of her own not long since, trampled down by flying horsemen at the gate.""Ay, lad; but why d'ye not get forward with your news of Sir Reginald?""Because I cannot trust myself to speak of him without some folly in my throat. Give me time, sir—give me time. I got about again in a day or two, and stumbled home somehow to Norton Conyers. And I—I met a black procession—all like a nightmare, it was—journeying to the kirkyard. So I joined them; and one man nudged another, and asked who this was coming in his tatters to the burial without mourning-gear. And I pointed to my wounds and laughed. 'Mourning-gear enough,' said I. 'Mourners go in blood and tatters since Marston.' And then, they tell me, I fell, and lay where I fell. That was all I knew, till I got up next day with all my limbs on fire."There was silence among those looking on—a deep and reverent silence. This youngster, out of battle and great pain, had captured some right-of-way to the attention of strong men."When I was about again, they told me how it chanced. Sir Reginald took a mortal hurt at Marston, but rode with the best of his strength to Norton Conyers. He found Lady Graham at the gate, waiting for news of him; and he stooped from saddle, so they say, and kissed her. 'I could not die away from you, wife,' he said.""Ay," growled the Governor, "he was like that—a hard fighter, and a lover so devout that his wife had reason to be proud.""She tried to help him get from horse; but he shook his head. 'The stairs are wide enough,' was all his explanation. Then he rode in at the main door and up the stair, and bent his head low to enter the big bed-chamber. He got from the saddle to the bed, lay with his eyes on fire with happiness, and so died.""A good ending," said the Squire of Nappa roughly, because he dared not give his feelings play. "What I should call a gentleman's ending—leal to King and wife. Oh, you young fool, no need to make a tragedy about it!"Graham answered gamely to the taunt that braced him. "As for that, sir, tragedy is in the making, if no help comes to Norton Conyers. We had word this morning that a company of Roundheads was marching on the Hall—the worst of the whole brood—those who robbed the dead and dying in Wilstrop Wood."It was not the Governor of Knaresborough who took command. Without pause for thought of precedence, Squire Metcalf lifted his voice."A Mecca for the King, and bustle about the business, lads!"The road no longer showed like a meeting-place where idle gentry foregathered to pass the time of day. The Governor, with some envy underlying all his admiration, saw the Metcalfs swing into line behind their leader."Our horses are fresh," explained the Squire over shoulder, with a twinge of punctilio. "Do you follow, sir, and guard the women-folk.""I shall guard them," said the Governor, laughing quietly.Miss Bingham saw Joan watching the dust swirl and eddy in the wake of the Riding Metcalfs, saw that the girl's face was petulant and wistful. "He did not pause to say good-bye," she said, with gentlest sympathy."I did not ask him to.""But, indeed, men are fashioned in that mould. I am older than you, child.""So much is granted," said Joan sharply."And women are fashioned in their mould, too, with feet of velvet and the hidden claws. Yes, I am older. You drew blood there.""Miss Bingham, I am in no mood for petty warfare of our sort. Our men have done enough, and they are riding out again. We women should keep still tongues, I think, and pray for better guidance.""How does one pray? You're country-bred and I am not." The voice was gentle, but the sideways glance had venom in it. "It comes so easily to you, no doubt—scent of hay, and church bells ringing you across the fields, and perhapshewill meet you at the stile, to share the self-same book—is that what prayer means?""No," said the Governor, interposing bluntly. "Ask Lady Derby what prayer means—she who has made Lathom House a beacon for all time. Ask Ingilby's wife, who held Ripley for the King's wounded—ask Rupert——""The Prince—is he, too, among the listeners to church bells?" asked Miss Bingham airily."To be precise, he is. I talked yesterday with one who was at York when Rupert came to raise the siege. The Prince was spent with forced marches, dead-weary, soul and body. He had earned his praise, you would have thought; but, when they cheered him like folk gone mad, he just waited till the uproar ceased, and bared his head. 'The faith that is in me did it, friends, not I,' he said, and the next moment he laughed, asking for a stoup of wine.""He cared for his body, too, 'twould seem," murmured Miss Bingham."A soldier does, unless by birth and habit he's an incorrigible fool. I've even less acquaintance than you with prayer; but I've seen the fruits of it too often, child, to sneer at it.""To be named child—believe me, sir, it's incense to me. Miss Grant here was persuading me that I was old enough to be her mother. I was prepared to kneel at the next wayside pool and search there for grey hairs.""Search in twenty years or so—time enough for that. Meanwhile, we have to follow these hot-headed Metcalfs, and discipline begins, Miss Bingham.""Oh, discipline—it is as tedious as prayer."The Governor cut short her whimsies. "The tedium begins. This is no ballroom, I would have you understand."Miss Bingham sighed as their company got into order. "Why are not all men of that fashion?" she asked languidly. "It is so simple to obey when one hears the whip, instead of flattery, singing round one's ears."Joan glanced at her in simple wonderment. She had no key that unlocked the tired, wayward meaning of this woman who had played many games of chess with the thing she named her heart.The Metcalfs, meanwhile, had gone forward at a heady pace. As of old, one purpose guided them, and one rough master-mind had leadership of their hot zeal. They encountered many piteous sights by the wayside—stragglers from Marston, Knaresborough, York—but the old Squire checked his pity."It's forrard, lads, forrard!" he would roar from time to time, as they were tempted to halt for succour of the fallen.His instinct guided him aright. When they came through the dust of thirsty roads and the dead heat of a thunderstorm that was brewing overhead, to the high lands overlooking Norton Conyers, they caught a glint below them of keen sunlight shining on keen steel."It's always my luck to be just in time, with little to spare," said Blake, the messenger, who was riding at the Squire's bridle-hand. "D'ye see them yonder?"Metcalf saw a gently-falling slope of pasture between the Roundheads and themselves, with low hedges separating one field from another. "Tally-ho, my lads!" he laughed. "I'll give you a lead at the fences—a Yoredale sort of lead."The Parliament men checked their horses, gaped up at the sudden uproar, and had scarce braced themselves for the encounter when the Metcalfs were down and into them. The weight of horseflesh, backed by speed, crashed through their bulk, lessening the odds a little. Then it was hack, and counter, and thrust, till the storm broke overhead, as it had done at Marston, but with a livelier fury. They did not heed it. Time and again the yell of "A Mecca for the King!" was met by the roar of "God and the Parliament!" And Squire Metcalf, in a lull of the eddying battle, found the tart humour that was his help in need."Nay, I'd leave half of it out, if I were ye, after what chanced in Wilstrop Wood. Fight for Parliament alone, and all its devilries."That brought another swinging fight to a head; and the issue shifted constantly. The lightning danced about the men's armour. The thunder never ceased, and the rain lashed them as if every sluice-gate of the clouds were opened.Very stubborn it was, and the din of oaths and battle-cries leaped out across the thunder-roar, stifling it at times."The last shock, Meccas!" cried the Squire. "Remember Wilstrop Wood."In the harsh middle of the conflict, the Squire aimed a blow at the foremost of the Roundheads who rode at him. His pike dinted the man's body-armour, and the haft snapped in two. Little Blake rode forward to his aid, knowing it was useless; and, with a brutish laugh, the Roundhead swung his sword up.And then, out of the yellow murk of the sky, a friend rode down to the Squire's aid—rode faster than even Blake had done on the maddest of his escapades. Kit, unpressed for the moment after killing his immediate adversary, saw a blue fork of flame touch the uplifted sword and run down its length. The Roundhead's arm fell like a stone dropped from a great height, and lightning played about horse and rider till both seemed on fire. They dropped where they stood, and lay there; and for a moment no man stirred. It was as if God's hand was heavy on them all.The Squire was the first to recover. "D'ye need any further battle, ye robbers of the dead?" he asked.Without further parley they broke and fled. Panic was among them, and many who had been honest once in the grim faith they held saw wrath and judgment in this intervention.The Metcalfs were hot for pursuit, but their leader checked them. "Nay, lads. Leave the devil to follow his own. For our part, we're pledged to get to Norton Conyers as soon as may be."His kinsmen grumbled at the moment; but afterwards they recalled how Rupert, by the same kind of pursuit, had lost Marston Field, and they began to understand how wise their headstrong leader was.The sun was setting in a red mist—of rain to come—when they reached Norton Conyers; and an hour later the Governor of Knaresborough rode in with the mixed company he guarded. The men of his own garrison, the women-folk of Knaresborough and Ripley, odds and ends of camp followers, made up a band of Royalists tattered enough for the dourest Puritan's approval."Where is li'le Elizabeth?" asked Michael plaintively. "For my sins, I forgot her when the Squire told us we were hunting the foxes who raided Wilstrop Wood.""Who is Elizabeth?" snapped the Governor, in no good temper."Oh, a lady to her hoof-tips, sir—loyal, debonair, a bairn in your hands when she loves you, and a devil to intruders." He turned, with the smile that brimmed out and over his Irish mouth. "Meccas all, the Governor asks who Elizabeth is. They knew in Oxford, and praised her grace of bearing."A lusty braying sounded through the lessening thunder-claps, and a roar of laughter came from Michael's kinsmen."Twins are never far apart, if they can help it," said Christopher. "It is daft to worry about Elizabeth, so long as Michael's safe."From long siege on land there comes to men something of the look that manners have whose business is with besieging seas. The Governor's eyes were steady and far away. He seemed bewildered by the ready laughter of these folk who had ridden in the open instead of sitting behind castle walls. But even his gravity broke down when Elizabeth came trotting through the press, and look about her, and found Michael. She licked his hands and face. She brayed a triumph-song, its harmony known only to herself."One has not lived amiss, when all is said," said Michael. "You will bear witness, sir, that I have captured a heart of gold."The Governor stopped to pat Elizabeth, and she became an untamed fury on the sudden, for no reason that a man could guess."I—I am sorry, sir," Michael protested."Oh, no regrets! She is a lady to her hoof-tips, as you said, and my shins are only red-raw—not broken, as I feared."It was well they had their spell of laughter in between what had been and what must follow. When they came to Norton Conyers, it was to find the mistress dull with grief, and hopeless. All she cared for lay buried, with pomp and ceremony enough, in the kirkyard below. She was scarcely roused by the news that fire and rapine would have raided the defenceless house if the Riding Metcalfs had not come on the stroke of need."I thank you, gentlemen—oh, indeed, I thank you. But nothing matters very much. He waits for me, and that is all."She was past argument or quiet persuasion. They ate and drank their fill that night, because they needed it—and their needs were the King's just now—and on the morrow, when they had cursed their wounds, and prayed for further sleep, and got up again for whatever chanced, they found Graham's widow still intractable. They told her that the safety of many women-folk was in her hands."I trust them to you," she said. "There's an old nurse of mine lives up in a fold of the hills yonder. They will not find me there, and I care little if they do. Meanwhile, I shall get down each night and morning to pray for the soul of a gallant gentleman who has unlocked the Gate"—her eyes were luminous with a temperate fire—"unlocked it a little ahead of me. He has left it on the latch."The Squire bent to her hand. "Madam," he said, his roughness broken up, as honest moorland soil is broken when it is asked to rear pleasant crops—"madam, I've a wife in Yoredale, I. She carries your sort of heart, I think. Of your charity, pray for her till I come.""I shall pray, sir."And so the Riding Metcalfs went from Norton Conyers, with an added burden of women-folk, but with a sense of rosemary and starshine, as if they had tarried for a while in some wayside Calvary.
[image]"'Lady Ingilby, come to see whether her husband lives or is dead for the King.'"
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"'Lady Ingilby, come to see whether her husband lives or is dead for the King.'"
"I cannot tell you, madam. There are so many dead, on both sides of the battle."
"But I must know. Give us free conduct through the lines, my friend here and myself; it is a little thing to ask."
The Parliament man was muffled in a great-coat, an unwieldy hat drawn over his eyes. But Christopher knew him, though Ingilby's wife, her heart set on one errand only, saw beyond and through him, scarce knowing he was there save as an obstacle to progress down the lane.
"It is granted," said the Roundhead, "if you permit me to bandage your eyes until we come to the place where Sir William fought. I know the place, because our men brought in high tales of his strength and courage."
"But why the bandage?" she asked peremptorily.
"Because, between here and where he fought, there are sights not good for any woman's eyes."
"Ah, tut! I've nursed men at Ripley who were not good to see. Their wounds were taken for the King, and so were pleasant."
They went through what had been the centre of the King's army—went through all that was left of the Whitecoats, thick-huddled with their faces to the sky. For a moment even Ingilby's wife was dizzy and appalled. There was no scent of summer hedgerows now. Then she took hold again of her unalterable courage.
"Oh, they died well. Lead on."
They came to the place where Sir William's company had fought; and the sun, gaining strength already to drive through the mists of last night's thunderstorm, showed her the faces of many folk remembered, but not her husband's.
"I thank God," she said simply. Then, as she turned to retrace her steps, the inbred courtesy of the woman surmounted the pain that had gone before, the passionate thanksgiving that followed. "I thank you, too, for conduct through the lines. What is your name, that I may remember it in my prayers?"
"At Ripley they would name me Noll Cromwell. I ask no thanks, and need none."
It was all muddled and astounding, as the battle of last night had been. The man she had scolded not long ago at Ripley—the man whose soul she had whipped raw, though she did not guess it—had offered courtesy. For this hour, at any rate, Cromwell was a mystic, seeing with the clearer vision and knowing the kind lash of penance. Since this wild campaign began, drawing him from his quiet estate in Rutland, he had known no happiness till now. This woman had flouted him; yet he was glad, with an amazing gladness, to succour her in need.
A man came running, and said that General Cromwell was needed in Tockwith village, where some trouble had broken out among his men. The mystic disappeared. The Cromwell of sheer flesh and blood showed himself. "Trouble, is there?" he snapped. "I've a short way with trouble of that sort. As for you, Lady Ingilby, the password isEndeavour, and I would recommend you to secure your retreat at once."
With a half-defiant salute he was gone, and, as they came again to the place where the Whitecoats lay, a party of Roundhead horsemen, riding by, halted suddenly.
"You are on the King's side," said the leader, with a sharp glance at Christopher. "I am Captain Murray, at your service, of Leslie's horse. I know you because you all but killed me in that last rally Rupert made. What, in the de'il's name, are you doing here—and with a lady?"
"We are under safe-conduct through the lines. Cromwell gave us the wordEndeavournot five minutes since."
"Well, I need you, as it happens. There are many of your dead in Wilstrop Wood, and General Leslie has a soft heart—after the fight is done—like most Scotsmen. He sends me to find a King's man who can name the dead. 'They have wives and bairns, nae doot,' said Leslie in his dry way, 'and ill news is better than no news at a', for those who bide at hame.'"
Lady Ingilby was not sorry when her request to go with Kit was refused. After all, she had breakfasted on horrors and could take no further meal as yet.
"If he is there, Christopher," she whispered, "you will take me. If you do not find him, well. Either way, there is the God above us."
When they came to Wilstrop Wood—Lady Ingilby staying on the outskirts with three dour Scotsmen as a guard of honour—the wind was rustling through the trees. And from the ground there was a harsher rustle—the stir and unrest of men who could not die just yet, however they longed for the prison-gate of flesh to open.
The red-gold sunlight filtered through the cobwebs spun from tree to tree of Wilstrop Wood. And even Murray, who counted himself hard-bitten, stood aghast at what he saw. The underwood was white with bodies of the slain.
A great wrath and pity brought Kit's temper to a sudden heat. "Captain Murray," he said, "these dead have been robbed of all that hides their nakedness. I say it is a foul deed. Better have lost the fight than—than this."
"You will tell it to the world?" stammered Murray.
"Yes, if I win free of this. It shall be blazoned through the North, till there's none but knows of it."
Murray halted irresolute. If the Scotsman had been of grosser make, Kit would have joined the company of King's men who slept in Wilstrop Wood. It was easy, with the men he had at call, to silence this hot-headed youngster.
"That is your resolve?" he asked slowly.
"D'ye doubt it? Captain Murray, it is a loathsome business enough to pick the pockets of the dead, but to take clothes and all——"
"The Scots had no hand in it, I tell ye. Our lads hae over-muckle care for the dead of either side. But I aye mistrusted those Psalm-singing rogues. Will ye take it at that?"
"There's a sickness in the middle of me," said Christopher, with tired simplicity. "What is your business with me here in Wilstrop Wood?"
Murray conquered his first impulse to put Kit's tongue out of harm's way once for all. "As I told you, sir, General Leslie's heart is tender as a maudlin woman's—now the battle is won, and his own wounds patched up—and needs must that you identify the dead."
Christopher, who seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, was a true Dalesman. By letting the world see the froth and bubble of the upper waters, he hid the deeper pools. As they went through the wood, the sunlight filtering through on ground for ever to be haunted, he knew, by the whiteness of their skins, that the greater part of the fallen were gentry of the King's. Instinct, quick to help a man, told him it was unwise to admit the loss of so many officers to the cause, though he knew many faces there—faces of men who had shared fight or bivouac with him somewhere between this and Oxford.
"They must rest where they lie, for all the help I can give you," he said impassively, "and may God have mercy on their souls."
"Sir, I wonder at your calm," snapped Murray; "but now I understand. All you Papists have that quiet air of ease."
"Up in Yoredale we heard nothing of the Pope, but much of prayers for those who crossed the fighting-line ahead of us."
Murray thought he made nothing of this lad; yet at heart he knew that, through all the moil and stench of Marston, he, too, was going back along the years—going back to the knees of his mother, whose prayers for him he thought forgotten long since.
As they were making their way through the wood again, a slim youngster, stark naked, lifted himself on an elbow and babbled in his weakness. "Have we won, friend?" he asked, looking at Kit and Murray with starry, fevered eyes.
"Aye," said Murray, Scottish pity warring with regard for truth. "We've won, my laddie."
"Then unfasten this bracelet from my wrist. Oh, quick, you fools—the time's short! Take it to Miss Bingham, out at Knaresborough yonder, and tell her I died as well as might be. Tell her Marston Moor is won for the King."
And with that there came a rattle in his throat. And he crossed himself with a feeble forefinger.
"Dear God," said Murray, "the light about his face! You simple gallants have the laugh of us when it comes to the high affair of dying."
Christopher said nothing, after closing the eyes of a gentleman the King could ill afford to lose. And so they came out of Wilstrop Wood, and found Lady Ingilby again.
"Does he lie there?" she asked sharply.
"I did not see him," answered Kit.
"I am almost—almost happy. You did not find him? Come; they'll be needing us at Ripley."
CHAPTER XX.
THE HOMELESS DAYS.
Marston Moor was fought and ended. A mortal blow had been struck at the King's cause in the North; and yet the Metcalfs, rallying round Lady Ingilby at Ripley, would not admit as much. The King must come to his own, they held, and Marston was just an unlucky skirmish that mattered little either way.
York capitulated, and Squire Metcalf, when the news was brought at supper-time, shrugged his shoulders.
"It's a pity," he said. "We must get on without the good town of York—that is all."
Lady Ingilby glanced across at him. For the first time since Marston Moor she smiled. "And if all is lost, will you still believe that the world goes very well?"
A great sob broke from the Squire, against his will or knowledge. "Lady Ingilby, there are fewer Metcalfs than there were," he explained shame-facedly. "I went through Marston Fight, moreover. It is not my faith that weakens—it is just that I am human, and my courage fails."
None spoke for a while. The mistress of Ripley, on her knees in the chapelry, or busying herself about her men's needs, had learned what the Squire had learned. Those who had gone through the stress and anguish of the late battle, and the women who had waited here between closed walls for news to come, all caught the wonder of this moment. It was as if some Presence were among them, interpreting the rough strife of sword and pike.
"If there were two Metcalfs left of us all," said the Squire, his big voice humorous in its gentleness, "we should still believe that all was well with King Charles. And, if one fell, t'other would be glad to be the last to die for His Majesty."
The moment passed. It was too intimate, too filled with knowledge of the over-world, for long continuance. Metcalf filled his glass afresh. The men were glad to follow his good example.
"Your health, Lady Ingilby—your good health," said the Squire.
While they were drinking the toast, the outer door was opened hurriedly, and a little, wiry man came in. His face was tired, and his clothes were stained with rain and mud.
"Gad, here's Blake!" laughed Kit Metcalf. "Blake, the rider—I saw him bring the Metcalfs into Oxford."
Blake nodded cheerily. "Life has its compensations. I shall remember that ride down Oxford High Street until I die, I think. Lady Ingilby, I've a message from your husband, for your private ear."
A great stillness had come to Lady Ingilby, a certainty of herself and of the men about her. "He was always a good lover. You can give his message to the public ear."
"He escaped from Marston with twenty men, and hid in Wilstrop Wood. There was carnage there, but your lord escaped. And afterwards he fell in with Prince Rupert, returning with volunteers from the garrison at York. He bids me tell you he is safe."
"Was that all his message, Mr. Blake?"
"No, it was not all, but—but the rest is for your private ear, believe me."
"I—am very tired. My courage needs some open praise. What was my lord's message?"
Blake stooped to whisper in her ear, and Lady Ingilby laughed. Keen youth was in her face. "Gentlemen, it was a vastly tender message. I am proud, and—and a woman again, I think, after all this discipline of war. My husband bids me hold Ripley Castle for as long as may be, if the Metcalfs come."
"There never was much 'if' about a Metcalf," said the old Squire. "Our word was pledged before ever Marston Fight began."
"Oh, he knew as much, but you forget, sir, that many hindrances might have come between your pledged word and yourselves. You might have died to a man, as the Whitecoats did—God rest them."
The Squire's bluntness softened. The tenderness that is in the heart of every Yorkshireman showed plainly in his face. "True. We might all have died. As it is, there are many gaps that will have to be explained to the goodwife up in Yoredale."
And again there was a wonder and a stillness in the hall, none knowing why, till Lady Ingilby broke silence. "Such gaps need no explaining. They are filled by a golden light, and in the midst of it a rude wooden cross, and over it the words 'For Valour.' There, gentlemen, I weary you with dreams. Lest you think me fanciful, let me fill your glasses for you. It will do you no harm to drink deep to-night, and the sentries are ready at their posts."
They could make nothing of her. Gay, alert, she went about the board, the wine-jug in her hands. The message from her lord that Blake had whispered seemed to have taken a score years from her life, as strong sun eats up a rimy frost. When she bade them good-night and passed out, it was as if a spirit of great charm and well-being had gone and left them dull.
On the morrow there was work enough to keep them busy. The fall of York had sent Cromwell's men like a swarm of bees about the land. Dour and unimaginative in battle, they ran wild when victory was theirs. Men who had been plough-boys and farm-hinds a year since were filled with heady glee that they had helped to bring the great ones low. Some of their officers could not believe—honestly, each man to his conscience—that there was any good or usefulness in gentlemen of the King's who wore love-locks because it was the habit of their class, and who chanced to carry a fine courage under frivolous wearing-gear.
The Squire of Nappa was roused, somewhere about five of the clock, by a din and shouting from the courtyard underneath his bed-chamber. At first he fancied he was back on Marston Field again, and raised a sleepy challenge. Then, as the uproar increased, he got out of bed, stretched himself with one big, satisfying yawn, and threw the casement open.
The summer's dawn was moist and fragrant. His eyes, by instinct, sought the sky-line where, in Yoredale, hills would be. Here he saw only rolling country that billowed into misty spaces, with a blurred and ruddy sun above it all. The fragrance of wet earth and field flowers came in with the warm morning breeze. He was a countryman again, glad to be alive on a June day.
Then he returned to soldiery, looked down on the press of men below, and his face hardened. "Give you good-morrow, Cropheads," he said gently.
"And who may you be?" asked the leader of the troop.
"A Mecca for the King. Ah, you've heard that rally-call before, I fancy. Your own name, sir?"
"Elihu Give-the-Praise."
"Be pleased to be serious. That is a nickname, surely."
A storm of protest came from the soldiery, and Elihu took heart of grace again.
"Idolaters and wine-bibbers, all of you," he said, vindictiveness and martyrdom struggling for the mastery. "Since I forswore brown ale and kept the narrow track, men know me as Elihu Give-the-Praise."
"Then, as one who relishes brown ale, I ask you what your business is, disturbing a Riding Metcalf when he needs his sleep?"
"Our business is short and sharp—to bid you surrender, or we sack the Castle."
"Your business is like to be long and tedious," laughed the Squire, and shut the casement.
He crossed to the landing and lifted a hale cry of "Rouse yourself, Meccas! What lads you are for sleeping!" And there was a sudden tumult within doors louder than the din of Puritans outside. It was then, for the first time, that Lady Ingilby, running from her chamber with a loose wrap thrown about her disarray, understood the full meaning of clan discipline.
The men who answered the rally-call were heavy with sleep and in no good temper; but they stood waiting for their orders without protest. When the Squire told them what was in the doing, their faces cleared. Sleep went by them like a dream forgotten. The Roundheads underneath fired some random shots, as a token of what would follow if there were no surrender; and, in reply, spits of flame ran out from every loophole of the Castle front. They were not idle shots. Elihu Give-the-Praise, with a stiff courage of his own, tried to rally his men, in spite of a splintered arm; but a second flight of bullets rained about them, and panic followed.
"A thrifty dawn," said the Squire of Nappa, as if he danced at a wedding.
For that day, and for three days thereafter, there was little sleep within the Ripley walls. Parliament men, in scattered companies, marched to replace the slain and wounded. There were sorties from the Castle, and ready fire from the loopholes overhead; and in the courtyard space lay many bodies that neither side could snatch for decent burial. There was not only famine sitting on the Ripley threshold now, but pestilence; for the moist heat of the summer was not good for dead or living men.
In the middle watch of the fourth night, Squire Metcalf heard a company of horsemen clatter up to the main gate. He thrust his head through a casement of the tower—the loopholes had been widened in these modern days—and asked gruffly the strangers' errand.
"Surrender while you can, Nappa men," said the foremost horseman.
"It is not our habit."
"There's a company of Fairfax's men—a thousand of them, more or less—within call."
"Ay, so are a thousand cuckoos, if you could whistle them to hand. Who are you, to come jesting at the gates?"
"Nephew to Lord Fairfax, by your leave."
"That alters matters. I'm Metcalf of Nappa, and aye had a liking for the Fairfaxes, though the devil knows how they came into t'other camp. Their word is their bargain, anyhow."
Fairfax laughed. The sturdy bluntness of the man was in keeping with all he had heard of him. "That is true. Will you surrender—leaving all arms behind you?"
"No," said the Squire of Nappa. "Bring your thousand cuckoos in, and I promise 'em a welcome."
He shut the casement, called for his son Christopher to take his sentry-place, and sought Lady Ingilby.
"There's a good deal to be done in five minutes," he said, by way of breaking the news to her.
"Oh, you think only of speed these days, and I—believe me, I am tired."
"'Tiredness butters no haver-bread,' as we say in Yoredale. There are two ways open to us—one to surrender by and by, the other to ride out to-night."
"But my husband—-oh, he left me here to hold the Castle."
"For as long as might be. He'll not grumble when he learns the way of our riding out. Better leave Ripley now, with honour, than wait till they starve us into surrender."
He had his way. In silence they made their preparations. Then Metcalf lifted a noisy rally-cry as he led his men into the courtyard. And the fight was grim and troublesome. When it was done, the Metcalfs turned—those who were left—and came back for the womenfolk; and some of the white horses, saddled hastily, fidgeted when for the first time they found women's hands on the bridle.
Michael was one of those who gave his horse, lest a woman should go on foot; and at the courtyard gate, while the press of folk went through, he halted suddenly.
"Kit," he said, "there's li'le Elizabeth braying as if all her world were lost. 'Twould be a shame to forget her, after what she did for me at York."
Christopher was young to defeat. "It's no time to think of donkeys, Michael," he snapped, humour and good temper deserting him in need.
"I defend my own, lad, whether Marston Moor is lost or won. I'm fond of Elizabeth, if only for her skew-tempered blandishments."
When he returned from the humble pent-house where they had lodged the ass, the Squire had got his company ready for the march, and was demanding roughly where Michael was.
"Here, sir," said Michael, with the laugh that came in season or out.
"Making friends with your kind, lad," snapped the other. "Well, it's a thrifty sort of common sense."
The odd cavalcade went out into the dewy, fragrant dawn. About the land was one insistent litany of birds—merle and mavis, sleepy cawing of the rooks, and shrill cry of the curlews and the plover. A warm sun was drinking up lush odours from the rain-washed fields and hedgerows.
"Eh, but to see my growing corn in Yoredale!" sighed Squire Metcalf. "As 'tis, lads, we're heading straight for Knaresborough, to learn how they are faring there."
Joan Grant had been content, till now, to sit Christopher's horse and to find him at her stirrup.
"I do not like the Knaresborough country," she said, with gusty petulance.
"Not like it? Their garrison has kept the Cropheads busy."
"Oh, ay, Master Christopher! There's nothing in the world save sorties and hard gallops. To be sure, we poor women are thrust aside these days."
"What is it?"
"What is it, the boy asks. I thought you grown since Yoredale days; and now, Kit, you're rough and clumsy as when you came a-wooing and I bade you climb a high tree—if, that is, you had need to find my heart."
They rode in silence for a while. Christopher thought that he had learned one thing at least—to keep a still tongue when a woman's temper ran away with her. But here, again, his wisdom was derided.
"I loathe the tongue-tied folk! Battle, and audience with the King, and wayfaring from Yoredale down to Oxford—have they left you mute?"
"Less talkative," he agreed; "I've seen men die."
For a moment she lost her petulance. "You are older, graver, more likeable. And yet I—I like you less. There was no need—surely there was no need to—to let others tell me of the ferry-steps at Knaresborough."
"The ferry-steps?"
"So you've forgotten that poor maid as well. I pity Miss Bingham now. Why do women hate each other so? Instead, they should go into some Sisterhood of Pity, hidden away from men."
"They should," assented Christopher; "but few of them do, 'twould seem."
"And now you laugh at me. Oh, I have heard it all! How pleasantly Nidd River runs past the ferry-steps. She is beautiful, they tell me."
"I have no judgment in these matters. Ask Michael—he was there with me in Knaresborough."
Michael had chanced to overtake them at the moment, Elizabeth following him like a dog. "Nidd River—yes, she is beautiful."
"It was Miss Bingham we talked of. I—oh! I have heard such wonderful tales of her. She glamours men, they say."
Michael, for a breathing-space or two, was silent. Then he recaptured the easy-going air that had served as a mask in harder times than this. "She glamoured me, Miss Grant—on my faith, she did—whenever Kit would leave her side. The kindest eyes that ever peeped from behind a lattice."
"Miss Bingham seems to be prodigal of the gifts that heaven has given her."
"True charity, believe me—to spend what one has, and spend it royally."
"She seems, indeed, to be a very perfect hoyden. Oh, I am weary! Marston Moor is lost. Ripley is lost. Are we going to ride for ever along dreary roads?"
"Three of us go on foot—Kit the baby, Elizabeth and I. We have no grumbles."
She turned on him like a whirlwind. "If the end of the world came—here and now—you would make a jest of it."
[image]"'If the end of the world came—here and now—you would make a jest of it.'"
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"'If the end of the world came—here and now—you would make a jest of it.'"
"'Twould sweeten the end, at any rate. There's Irish blood in me, I tell you."
From ahead there sounded a sharp cry of command. "Hi, Meccas, all! The enemy's in front."
War had lessened the ranks of the Metcalfs, but not their discipline. Michael and his brother clutched each a horse's bridle, after helping the women to alight, and sprang to the saddle. Even Elizabeth shambled forward to take her share of hazard, and Joan found herself alone. And the gist of her thoughts was that she hated Kit, and was afraid that he would die.
She watched the Metcalfs spur forward, then slacken pace as they neared the big company coming round the bend of the road. The old Squire's voice rang down-wind to her.
"King's men, like ourselves? Ay, I see the fashion of you. And where may you be from, gentles?"
"I'm the late Governor of Knaresborough, at your service."
"And I'm the Squire of Nappa, with all that the Cropheads have left of my Riding Metcalfs."
The Governor saluted with extreme precision. "This almost reconciles me to the loss of Knaresborough, sir. We have heard of you—give you good-day," he broke off, catching sight of Michael and Christopher. "We have met in happier circumstances, I think."
CHAPTER XXI.
SIR REGINALD'S WIDOW.
There is nothing so astounding, so muddled by cross-issues and unexpected happenings, as civil war. Not long ago Marston Moor had heard the groans of Cavaliers as they lay naked to the night-wind, and prayed for death in Wilstrop Wood. York had surrendered. The garrisons of Knaresborough and Ripley, met together on the dusty highroad here, were weak with famine and privation. Yet they stood chatting—the ladies of both garrisons passing laughter and light badinage with the men—as if they were gathered for a hunting-party or falconry. The intolerable pressure of the past months was ended for a while, if only by disaster; and from sheer relief they jested.
Joan Grant, in the middle of the chatter, edged her mare near to a sprightly horse-woman who had just dismissed Michael with a playful tap of her whip across his cheek.
"You are Miss Bingham? Ah, I guessed it."
"By what token?"
"By your beauty, shall we say? Gossip has so much to tell about it, and about the Vicarage garden, with Nidd River swirling past the ferry-steps."
They eyed each other with the wariness of duellists. "The good Vicar is fortunate in his garden," assented Miss Bingham, with the most charming courtesy.
"And in his water-nymphs, 'twould seem. I think you would be like some comely dream—on an April evening, say, with the young leafage of the trees for halo."
"Oh, it is pleasant to be flattered! But why this praise of me? We were strangers not an hour ago."
"I have heard so much of you. You were so kind to the men who sortied from Knaresborough and returned with wounds. You sat by the ferry-steps—all like a good angel—and bound their hurts afresh when they smarted. Oh, indeed, we have heard of your pleasant skill in healing."
While they faced each other, there came the thud and racket of horse-hoofs down the road. The rider drew rein amid a swirl of dust, cleared his eyes with a hand that trembled, and looked from one face to another. His tired face lit up when at last he saw the Governor of Knaresborough.
"Give you good-day, sir. I was riding to seek aid from you."
"The devil you were," growled the other. "The man sups lean who trusts to my help, Graham. Knaresborough's in other hands since—since Marston."
"It would be. I had forgotten that. But you're here."
"What is your need, lad?"
"A few men to help me, over at Norton Conyers. I rode to ask if you could lend them me."
"All of us, if we're needed. We were jesting on the road here, for lack of other occupation. What is it? But, first, is your uncle safe—tough Reginald Graham? I love him as I love the steep rock-face of Knaresborough."
"It was this way. My uncle would have me near him at Marston. We were with Rupert on the right wing, and were close behind one of the Riding Metcalfs—I know not which, for they're all big men and as like as two peas in a pod—and saw him cut Cromwell through the throat. We were together when we broke the Roundheads and pursued too far. It was when we came to the ditch again, and found Leslie there with his Scots, that I lost Sir Reginald. I took a wound or two in the stampede that followed, and was laid by in a little farmstead near Wilstrop Wood. The good-wife was kind to me—said she had lost a bairn of her own not long since, trampled down by flying horsemen at the gate."
"Ay, lad; but why d'ye not get forward with your news of Sir Reginald?"
"Because I cannot trust myself to speak of him without some folly in my throat. Give me time, sir—give me time. I got about again in a day or two, and stumbled home somehow to Norton Conyers. And I—I met a black procession—all like a nightmare, it was—journeying to the kirkyard. So I joined them; and one man nudged another, and asked who this was coming in his tatters to the burial without mourning-gear. And I pointed to my wounds and laughed. 'Mourning-gear enough,' said I. 'Mourners go in blood and tatters since Marston.' And then, they tell me, I fell, and lay where I fell. That was all I knew, till I got up next day with all my limbs on fire."
There was silence among those looking on—a deep and reverent silence. This youngster, out of battle and great pain, had captured some right-of-way to the attention of strong men.
"When I was about again, they told me how it chanced. Sir Reginald took a mortal hurt at Marston, but rode with the best of his strength to Norton Conyers. He found Lady Graham at the gate, waiting for news of him; and he stooped from saddle, so they say, and kissed her. 'I could not die away from you, wife,' he said."
"Ay," growled the Governor, "he was like that—a hard fighter, and a lover so devout that his wife had reason to be proud."
"She tried to help him get from horse; but he shook his head. 'The stairs are wide enough,' was all his explanation. Then he rode in at the main door and up the stair, and bent his head low to enter the big bed-chamber. He got from the saddle to the bed, lay with his eyes on fire with happiness, and so died."
"A good ending," said the Squire of Nappa roughly, because he dared not give his feelings play. "What I should call a gentleman's ending—leal to King and wife. Oh, you young fool, no need to make a tragedy about it!"
Graham answered gamely to the taunt that braced him. "As for that, sir, tragedy is in the making, if no help comes to Norton Conyers. We had word this morning that a company of Roundheads was marching on the Hall—the worst of the whole brood—those who robbed the dead and dying in Wilstrop Wood."
It was not the Governor of Knaresborough who took command. Without pause for thought of precedence, Squire Metcalf lifted his voice.
"A Mecca for the King, and bustle about the business, lads!"
The road no longer showed like a meeting-place where idle gentry foregathered to pass the time of day. The Governor, with some envy underlying all his admiration, saw the Metcalfs swing into line behind their leader.
"Our horses are fresh," explained the Squire over shoulder, with a twinge of punctilio. "Do you follow, sir, and guard the women-folk."
"I shall guard them," said the Governor, laughing quietly.
Miss Bingham saw Joan watching the dust swirl and eddy in the wake of the Riding Metcalfs, saw that the girl's face was petulant and wistful. "He did not pause to say good-bye," she said, with gentlest sympathy.
"I did not ask him to."
"But, indeed, men are fashioned in that mould. I am older than you, child."
"So much is granted," said Joan sharply.
"And women are fashioned in their mould, too, with feet of velvet and the hidden claws. Yes, I am older. You drew blood there."
"Miss Bingham, I am in no mood for petty warfare of our sort. Our men have done enough, and they are riding out again. We women should keep still tongues, I think, and pray for better guidance."
"How does one pray? You're country-bred and I am not." The voice was gentle, but the sideways glance had venom in it. "It comes so easily to you, no doubt—scent of hay, and church bells ringing you across the fields, and perhapshewill meet you at the stile, to share the self-same book—is that what prayer means?"
"No," said the Governor, interposing bluntly. "Ask Lady Derby what prayer means—she who has made Lathom House a beacon for all time. Ask Ingilby's wife, who held Ripley for the King's wounded—ask Rupert——"
"The Prince—is he, too, among the listeners to church bells?" asked Miss Bingham airily.
"To be precise, he is. I talked yesterday with one who was at York when Rupert came to raise the siege. The Prince was spent with forced marches, dead-weary, soul and body. He had earned his praise, you would have thought; but, when they cheered him like folk gone mad, he just waited till the uproar ceased, and bared his head. 'The faith that is in me did it, friends, not I,' he said, and the next moment he laughed, asking for a stoup of wine."
"He cared for his body, too, 'twould seem," murmured Miss Bingham.
"A soldier does, unless by birth and habit he's an incorrigible fool. I've even less acquaintance than you with prayer; but I've seen the fruits of it too often, child, to sneer at it."
"To be named child—believe me, sir, it's incense to me. Miss Grant here was persuading me that I was old enough to be her mother. I was prepared to kneel at the next wayside pool and search there for grey hairs."
"Search in twenty years or so—time enough for that. Meanwhile, we have to follow these hot-headed Metcalfs, and discipline begins, Miss Bingham."
"Oh, discipline—it is as tedious as prayer."
The Governor cut short her whimsies. "The tedium begins. This is no ballroom, I would have you understand."
Miss Bingham sighed as their company got into order. "Why are not all men of that fashion?" she asked languidly. "It is so simple to obey when one hears the whip, instead of flattery, singing round one's ears."
Joan glanced at her in simple wonderment. She had no key that unlocked the tired, wayward meaning of this woman who had played many games of chess with the thing she named her heart.
The Metcalfs, meanwhile, had gone forward at a heady pace. As of old, one purpose guided them, and one rough master-mind had leadership of their hot zeal. They encountered many piteous sights by the wayside—stragglers from Marston, Knaresborough, York—but the old Squire checked his pity.
"It's forrard, lads, forrard!" he would roar from time to time, as they were tempted to halt for succour of the fallen.
His instinct guided him aright. When they came through the dust of thirsty roads and the dead heat of a thunderstorm that was brewing overhead, to the high lands overlooking Norton Conyers, they caught a glint below them of keen sunlight shining on keen steel.
"It's always my luck to be just in time, with little to spare," said Blake, the messenger, who was riding at the Squire's bridle-hand. "D'ye see them yonder?"
Metcalf saw a gently-falling slope of pasture between the Roundheads and themselves, with low hedges separating one field from another. "Tally-ho, my lads!" he laughed. "I'll give you a lead at the fences—a Yoredale sort of lead."
The Parliament men checked their horses, gaped up at the sudden uproar, and had scarce braced themselves for the encounter when the Metcalfs were down and into them. The weight of horseflesh, backed by speed, crashed through their bulk, lessening the odds a little. Then it was hack, and counter, and thrust, till the storm broke overhead, as it had done at Marston, but with a livelier fury. They did not heed it. Time and again the yell of "A Mecca for the King!" was met by the roar of "God and the Parliament!" And Squire Metcalf, in a lull of the eddying battle, found the tart humour that was his help in need.
"Nay, I'd leave half of it out, if I were ye, after what chanced in Wilstrop Wood. Fight for Parliament alone, and all its devilries."
That brought another swinging fight to a head; and the issue shifted constantly. The lightning danced about the men's armour. The thunder never ceased, and the rain lashed them as if every sluice-gate of the clouds were opened.
Very stubborn it was, and the din of oaths and battle-cries leaped out across the thunder-roar, stifling it at times.
"The last shock, Meccas!" cried the Squire. "Remember Wilstrop Wood."
In the harsh middle of the conflict, the Squire aimed a blow at the foremost of the Roundheads who rode at him. His pike dinted the man's body-armour, and the haft snapped in two. Little Blake rode forward to his aid, knowing it was useless; and, with a brutish laugh, the Roundhead swung his sword up.
And then, out of the yellow murk of the sky, a friend rode down to the Squire's aid—rode faster than even Blake had done on the maddest of his escapades. Kit, unpressed for the moment after killing his immediate adversary, saw a blue fork of flame touch the uplifted sword and run down its length. The Roundhead's arm fell like a stone dropped from a great height, and lightning played about horse and rider till both seemed on fire. They dropped where they stood, and lay there; and for a moment no man stirred. It was as if God's hand was heavy on them all.
The Squire was the first to recover. "D'ye need any further battle, ye robbers of the dead?" he asked.
Without further parley they broke and fled. Panic was among them, and many who had been honest once in the grim faith they held saw wrath and judgment in this intervention.
The Metcalfs were hot for pursuit, but their leader checked them. "Nay, lads. Leave the devil to follow his own. For our part, we're pledged to get to Norton Conyers as soon as may be."
His kinsmen grumbled at the moment; but afterwards they recalled how Rupert, by the same kind of pursuit, had lost Marston Field, and they began to understand how wise their headstrong leader was.
The sun was setting in a red mist—of rain to come—when they reached Norton Conyers; and an hour later the Governor of Knaresborough rode in with the mixed company he guarded. The men of his own garrison, the women-folk of Knaresborough and Ripley, odds and ends of camp followers, made up a band of Royalists tattered enough for the dourest Puritan's approval.
"Where is li'le Elizabeth?" asked Michael plaintively. "For my sins, I forgot her when the Squire told us we were hunting the foxes who raided Wilstrop Wood."
"Who is Elizabeth?" snapped the Governor, in no good temper.
"Oh, a lady to her hoof-tips, sir—loyal, debonair, a bairn in your hands when she loves you, and a devil to intruders." He turned, with the smile that brimmed out and over his Irish mouth. "Meccas all, the Governor asks who Elizabeth is. They knew in Oxford, and praised her grace of bearing."
A lusty braying sounded through the lessening thunder-claps, and a roar of laughter came from Michael's kinsmen.
"Twins are never far apart, if they can help it," said Christopher. "It is daft to worry about Elizabeth, so long as Michael's safe."
From long siege on land there comes to men something of the look that manners have whose business is with besieging seas. The Governor's eyes were steady and far away. He seemed bewildered by the ready laughter of these folk who had ridden in the open instead of sitting behind castle walls. But even his gravity broke down when Elizabeth came trotting through the press, and look about her, and found Michael. She licked his hands and face. She brayed a triumph-song, its harmony known only to herself.
"One has not lived amiss, when all is said," said Michael. "You will bear witness, sir, that I have captured a heart of gold."
The Governor stopped to pat Elizabeth, and she became an untamed fury on the sudden, for no reason that a man could guess.
"I—I am sorry, sir," Michael protested.
"Oh, no regrets! She is a lady to her hoof-tips, as you said, and my shins are only red-raw—not broken, as I feared."
It was well they had their spell of laughter in between what had been and what must follow. When they came to Norton Conyers, it was to find the mistress dull with grief, and hopeless. All she cared for lay buried, with pomp and ceremony enough, in the kirkyard below. She was scarcely roused by the news that fire and rapine would have raided the defenceless house if the Riding Metcalfs had not come on the stroke of need.
"I thank you, gentlemen—oh, indeed, I thank you. But nothing matters very much. He waits for me, and that is all."
She was past argument or quiet persuasion. They ate and drank their fill that night, because they needed it—and their needs were the King's just now—and on the morrow, when they had cursed their wounds, and prayed for further sleep, and got up again for whatever chanced, they found Graham's widow still intractable. They told her that the safety of many women-folk was in her hands.
"I trust them to you," she said. "There's an old nurse of mine lives up in a fold of the hills yonder. They will not find me there, and I care little if they do. Meanwhile, I shall get down each night and morning to pray for the soul of a gallant gentleman who has unlocked the Gate"—her eyes were luminous with a temperate fire—"unlocked it a little ahead of me. He has left it on the latch."
The Squire bent to her hand. "Madam," he said, his roughness broken up, as honest moorland soil is broken when it is asked to rear pleasant crops—"madam, I've a wife in Yoredale, I. She carries your sort of heart, I think. Of your charity, pray for her till I come."
"I shall pray, sir."
And so the Riding Metcalfs went from Norton Conyers, with an added burden of women-folk, but with a sense of rosemary and starshine, as if they had tarried for a while in some wayside Calvary.