Joan Grant, when she bade Christopher climb a high tree if he sought her heart, had not told him that she was taking a journey. When afterwards she waved a farewell to him, as he rode out with his kinsfolk, she had given no hint that she, too, was following adventure on the morrow.  
The day after the Metcalfs, a hundred-and-twenty strong, journeyed to serve King Charles, she set out on a more peaceful quest. Her aunt, Lady Ingilby of Ripley, had commanded this favourite niece of hers—all in my lady's imperious, high-handed way—to join her in the widowhood that her husband's absence with the Royal army enforced on her. Her own father was somewhere in Oxfordshire with the King, her brothers with Prince Rupert, and in their absence Lady Grant had decided¹ that her daughter must obey the command.
 
"I was always a little afraid of my sister of Ripley," she explained, in her pretty, inconsequent way. "She would not forgive me if I kept you here; and, after all, the roads may not be as dangerous as one fancies. You must go, child."
 
Joan took the road with some pomp. All the younger men had gone with the master to the wars; but her chaise was guarded by two old menservants who had pluck and good pistols, if no great strength to fight pitched battles; and she had her maid Pansy with her in the chaise.
 
"Do you know, mistress, what I found at the gate this morning?" asked the maid, as they went through the pleasant vale of Wensley.
 
"I could not guess, Pansy."
 
"Why, a stirrup-iron. Horseshoes are lucky enough, but a stirrup-iron——"
 
Joan laughed eagerly; she had the country superstitions² close at heart, because she, too, was a daleswoman. "There's a knight³ riding somewhere for me, Pansy."
 
"Knights⁴ are as knights do," said the other, with the Puritan tartness⁵ ingrained in her. "For my part, I'll hope he's better than most men. It's not asking much."
 
"In the doldrums, girl? I shall have to train you. It's easier to laugh, than cry—that's the true Royalist faith."
 
Pansy—half maid, half confidante, and altogether spoiled—began to whimper. "It's easy to laugh, with all the road in front of you, and a riding knight ahead. I've no man to think of, and that leaves a woman lonesome-like."
 
"It is not for want of suitors," said Joan, humouring her maid as good mistresses do. "You had your choice of the dalesmen, Pansy."
 
Pansy bridled⁶ a little and shifted her headgear to a more becoming angle. "Ay, but they're rough." Her speech relapsed into the mother-tongue she had tried often to forget. "A lass that kens⁸ more doesn't mate with the li'le bit less. She has her pride."
 
The mistress did not answer, but fell into a long reverie. What was true of the maid was true of herself. Young Kit⁹ Metcalf, riding for the King, was just "the li'le bit less," somehow. She had a regard for him, half real and half fanciful; but he seemed shut off from her by some intangible difference that was not uncouthness¹⁰, but something near to it. He was big and forthright¹¹, and shocked her daintiness.
 
They went through the pleasant dale. In Wensley village they met a waggon¹² coming home with corn, ingathered for the threshing. All down the valley men were reaping in the fields. The land yielded its produce, and folk were gathering¹³ it as if no blight¹⁴ of civil war had fallen about the land. This, too, disturbed Joan Grant. She had pictured her journey to Ripley as one long road of peril¹⁵—a battle to every mile, and danger's swift excitement scudding¹⁶ on before her.
 
"There's no war at all, Pansy," she said fretfully, watching mile after tranquil¹⁷ mile go by. "They gather in their corn, and the peace is undisturbed."
 
"We should be thankful for the mercy," said the maid austerely¹⁸.
 
"Oh, we should, girl, but we're not. Undoubtedly¹⁹ we are not thankful."
 
At Skipton, the day before, there had been battle enough, as the Riding Metcalfs knew. When the fight was ended, and they had spiked²⁰ the guns lying wide across the highway of the Raikes, they gathered for the forward ride. A hundred-and-twenty of them had ridden out, and not one was missing from their number, though half of them were carrying wounds.
 
Old Metcalf—"Mecca," as his kinsfolk had the name—rounded up his company. "The Governor tells me, lads, that a company of Fairfax's men are coming through. We've to go wide of Skipton and ambush²¹ them."
 
Battle sat finely on the man. He had no doubts, no waywardness. He was here for the King, to take orders from those placed above him, and to enforce them so far as his own command went.
 
"A Mecca for the King!" roared Christopher, the six-foot baby of the flock.
 
The cry was to sing like a northern gale²² through the Yorkshire highlands; and now the running uproar²³ of it drifted up the Raikes as they came to the track that led right-handed down to Embsay village. Down the pasture-lands they went, and through the small, grey township, and forward on the road to Bolton Abbey. Half between Bolton and Long Addingham they met a yeoman jogging forward at a tranquil trot²⁴.
 
"Why, Squire²⁵ Metcalf, it's a twelve-month and a day since we set eyes on each other," he said, reining²⁶ up. "Are you riding for Otley market?"
 
"Ay," said Metcalf, with a dalesman's wariness²⁷. "Is there aught stirring there, Demaine?"
 
"Nay²⁸, nowt so much—not enough to bring all your Nappa men with you, Squire. Maybe it's men you're seeking, instead of ewes and cattle."
 
"Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't."
 
"Well, if it's men you're seeking, you'll find 'em. I overtook three hundred of Fairfax's soldiery just setting out from Otley."
 
"Oh, you did? Were they horsed?"
 
"No, they were going at a sharp marching pace. They were a likely set o' lads to look at—thick in the beam, but varry dour²⁹ of face. I take no sides myself in this business of King and Parliament. I only say, Squire, that a nod's as good as a wink³⁰ in troubled times."
 
"Thanks, Demaine," said the Squire of Nappa.
 
"Nay, no need. Neighbour knows neighbour, and good day to ye."
 
The whole intimacy³¹ of the dales was in that brief greeting—the freemasonry that ran like quicksilver in between the well-laid plans of ambitious generals. Fairfax had sent three hundred of his men to strengthen Lambert's attack on Skipton Castle. A country squire and a yeoman met on the highway and talked a while, and there was an ambush in the making.
 
"Hi, Christopher!" said the Squire, beckoning³² the lad to his side. "Ride forward on the Otley road till you see those men of Fairfax's. Then turn about and gallop³³."
 
Kit saluted³⁴ gravely, as he or any Metcalf of them would have saluted if the chief bade them ride through the Fiery³⁵ Gate. His wounds smarted as he rode for Otley, and he relished³⁶ the keen pain. He was young, with his eyes to the stars, and suffering for the King's sake was haloed by romance.
 
He went through Ilkley. Its straw-thatched cottages clustered round the brown stream of Wharfe; and, half a mile beyond, he saw a company of men on foot marching with quick and limber step. He forgot his wounds. With a boy's careless devilry, he galloped³⁷ to meet them and reined³⁸ up within twenty paces.
 
"Are you my Lord Fairfax's men?" he asked. "If so you're needed at Skipton. Put your best foot forward."
 
"We're Lord Fairfax's men, sir," said the officer in command. "Do you come from Captain Lambert?"
 
"From Skipton—yes, I come from Skipton. There's need for haste."
 
With a laugh and a light farewell, Kit reined about and spurred his horse. When he came to the top of the hill overlooking the wonderful, quiet sweep of river that rocked despoiled³⁹ Bolton Priory into dreams of yester-year, he found his kinsmen⁴⁰ waiting on the rise.
 
"What news, Kit?" asked the Squire.
 
"Sir, it will be butchery," said the lad, stirred by generous pity. "There's a big company of them, all on foot, and I—have led them into ambush."
 
Squire Metcalf snarled⁴¹ at his baby-boy. "The King will be well rid of his enemies. Men do not fight, Kit, on milk-and-water fancies."
 
A laugh went up from the Metcalfs—a laugh that was not easy for any lad to bear. "I've given my message, sir. Put me in the front of the hazard, if you doubt me."
 
The Squire had one of his sharp repentances. This son of his had shamed him, and for a moment he strove with the hot temper that was the inheritance of all the Metcalf breed.
 
"You shall lead us, Kit," he said at last.
 
The time seemed long in passing before the three hundred men of Fairfax's came marching at a stubborn pace into the hollow down below. Then, with a roar of "A Mecca for the King!" Christopher was down among them with his kinsmen.
 
When all was done, there was nothing left of the three hundred except a press of fugitives⁴⁴, some prisoners, and many bodies scattered⁴⁵ on the highroad. The garrison⁴⁶ at Skipton might sleep well to-night, so far as recruits to the besieging⁴⁷ forces went.
 
It was the prisoners who troubled the Squire of Nappa. His view of war had been that it was a downright affair of enemies who were killed or who escaped. He glanced at the fifty captives his men had taken, massed together in a sullen⁴⁸ company, and was perplexed⁴⁹. His roving troop of horse could not be burdened with such a dead weight of footmen. The garrison at Skipton Castle would not welcome them, for there were mouths enough to feed there already.
 
"What shall I do with them, lads?" he asked, riding apart with his men.
 
Michael Metcalf, a raking, black-haired fellow, laughed carelessly. "Best take powder and pistols from them and turn 'em adrift like sheep. They'll bleat⁵⁰ to little purpose, sir, without their weapons."
 
The Squire nodded. "Thou'rt not noted⁵¹ for great strength of head, Michael, save so far as taking blows goes, but that was sage⁴² advice."
 
The Metcalfs, trusting first to their pikes, and afterwards—the gentry⁵²-sort among them—to their swords, were disposed to look askance at the pistols as tools of slight account, until Michael again found wisdom. King's men, he said, might find a use for weapons the enemy found serviceable.
 
When the arms had been gathered, Squire Metcalf reined up in front of the prisoners. "Men of Fairfax's," he said bluntly, "you're a ragged⁵³ lot to look at, but there are gentlemen among you. I do not speak of rank or class. The gentlemen, as the price of freedom, will take no further part in the Rebellion. The louts may do as they please, but they had best not let me catch them at the fighting."
 
The words came hot and ready, and though the dispersed⁵⁴ company of prisoners laughed afterwards at the Squire's handling of the matter, they warmed to his faith in them. They had volunteered from many occupations to serve the Parliament. Blacksmiths and clothiers and carpenters from Otley were mingled⁵⁵ with farmers and slips of the gentry from the outlying country. All answered to the keen issue Squire Metcalf had given them. They were trusted. On the next day twenty of them lost hold of his message, and went in search of arms; but thirty were constant to their pledge, and this, with human nature as it is, was a high tribute to the Squire's persuasiveness⁵⁶.
 
The Metcalf men rode quietly toward Skipton. For the first time since their riding out from Nappa, they felt lonely. They had fought twice, and their appetite was whetted⁵⁷; but no other battle showed ahead. They were young to warfare⁵⁸, all of them, and thought it one happy road of skirmish, uproar, and hard blows, from end to end of the day's journey.
 
The only break in the monotony came as they rode up the steep track to Embsay Moor⁵⁹. At the top of the hill, dark against the sunlit sky, a solitary⁶⁰ horseman came into view, halted a moment to breathe his horse, then trotted⁶¹ down at a speed that the steepness of the road made foolhardy. He did not see the Metcalf company until it was too late to turn about, and trotted forward, since needs must.
 
"On which side of the battle?" asked Squire Metcalf, catching⁶² the bridle⁷.
 
"On which side are you, sir?"
 
"The King's, but you are not. No King's man ever bandies questions; he answers straight to the summons which side he stands for."
 
They found a message after diligent⁶³ searching of his person. The message was in Lambert's neat Quakerish handwriting, and was addressed to a captain of horse in Ripon, bidding him take his men to Ripley and keep watch about the Castle. "That termagant, Lady Ingilby, is making her house a meeting-place for Cavaliers," the message read. "Her husband at the wars is one man only. She rallies twenty to the cause each day. See to it, and quickly."
 
"Ay," said the Squire, with his rollicking laugh, "we'll see to it."
 
It was astonishing to see the change in this man, who until yesterday had been content to tend his lands, to watch the dawn come up and sunset die over the hills he loved, and get to his early sleep. His father and his grandfather had handled big issues in the open, though he himself had chosen a stay-at-home squire's life; and the thing that is in the blood of a man leaps forward always at the call of need.
 
Squire Metcalf, with brisk courtesy, claimed the messenger's horse. "Lest you ride back to Skipton with the news," he explained, "and because a spare horse is always useful these days. For yourself, get back at leisure, and tell Mr. Lambert that the Riding Metcalfs have carried the message for him."
 
Without another word, he glanced at the sun, guessed hastily the line of country that pointed⁶⁴ to Ripley, and rode forward at the head of his good company. It was rough going, with many turns and twists to avoid wet ground here, a steep face of rock there; but at the end of it they came to a high spur of moor, and beneath them, in a flood of crimson—the sun was near its setting—they saw the tower of Ripley Castle and the long, raking front of house and outbuildings.
 
The Squire laughed. His face was aglow⁶⁵ with pride, like the sunset's. "I've few gifts, lads, but one of them is to know Yorkshire from end to end, as I know my way to bed o' nights. I've led you within sight of Ripley; the rest lies with lad Christopher."
 
Michael, the black-haired wastrel⁶⁶ of the flock, found voice.
 
"Kit will be saddle-sore if he rides all your errands. Give one o' them to me, sir."
 
The Squire looked him up and down. "You've a heart and a big body, Michael, but no head. I tell you, Kit must take this venture forward."
 
So Michael laughed. He was aware that, if wits were asked, he must give place to Kit, whom he loved with an odd, jealous liking⁶⁷.
 
"What is your errand, sir?" asked Christopher.
 
The Squire put Lambert's letter into his hand, bade him read it over and over, then snatched it from him. "Have you got it by heart, Kit?"
 
Kit repeated it word by word, and his father tore the letter into shreds⁶⁸ and threw them to the keen west wind that was piping over the moor. "That's the way to carry all messages. If you're taken, lad, they can turn your pockets inside out and search your boots, but they cannot find what's safe inside your head, not if they tap it with a sword-cut."
 
There was a high deed done on the moor at this hour of the declining day. Without a tremor⁶⁹ or regret, the Squire of Nappa sent his son—the one nearest his warm heart—to certain danger, to a hazard from which there might well be no returning.
 
"Find Lady Ingilby," he said gruffly, "and beware of Roundheads guarding the approaches to the house. Give her the message."
 
"And then, sir?"
 
"It is this way, Kit," said the Squire, after a restless pacing up and down the moor. "Take counsel with Lady Ingilby and any Cavaliers you find at Ripley. Tell them the Metcalfs have picketed⁷⁰ their horses here on the moor, and wait for orders. If she needs us, we are ready. And so good-bye, my lad."
 
The Metcalfs, by habit, were considerate toward the hale, big bodies that asked good feeding. On the way they had contrived⁷¹ to victual themselves with some thoroughness, and now they unstrapped each his own meal from the saddle. When they had eaten, and crowned the meal with a draught⁷² of water from the stream, Michael laughed that easy, thoughtless laugh of his.
 
"When the King comes to his own, I'll petition him to make the moors⁷³ run ripe October ale. I never thrive on water, I."
 
"It's not in you to thrive, lad," snapped the Squire. "You've no gift that way, come ale or water."
 
They had not been idle, any of them, since yesterday's riding out from Nappa; and now they were glad to lie in the heather and doze⁷⁴, and dream of the cornfields ripe for harvest and the ingle-nook at home. The Squire, for his part, had no wish for sleep. To and fro he paced in the warm, ruddy gloaming, and his dreams were of the future, not the past. Ambition, that had taken his forbears to high places, was changing all his old, quiet outlook. The King had summoned him. About his King there was a halo of romance and great deserving. It was good to be asked to fight for such a cause.
 
Metcalf did not know it, but his soul was ripening⁷⁵, like his own harvest fields, under this fierce sun of battle and peril and hard riding. Instead of a pipe by the hearth⁷⁶ o' nights, he was asked to bivouac on the moor, to throttle⁷⁷ sleep until Kit rode back or sent a messenger. He was content. Better a week of riding for the King than years of safety in home-fields.
 
He had not cared specially⁷⁸ for thinking, save of crops and horses and the way of rearing prime cattle for market; but to-night his mind was clear, marching out toward big issues. Little by little it grew plain to him that he had been given a leadership of no usual sort. There were a hundred-and-twenty of them, keen to charge with the whole weight of men and horses; but each of the six-score could ride alone on errands needing secrecy⁷⁹, and summon his kinsmen when any hazard pressed too closely. The clan⁸⁰ was one man or six-score, just as need asked, and the Squire was quick to realise the service they could render. It might well be that, long afterwards, men would tell their bairns, close huddled⁸¹ round the hearth on winter nights, what share the Riding Metcalfs had in crushing the rebellious⁸² Parliament.
 
As he thought about it all, his heart beating like a lad's, his imagination all afire, a step sounded close behind him. He turned to find Michael at his elbow.
 
"Well, scapegrace?" he asked. "It all goes bonnily enough."
 
"Ay, for Christopher," growled⁸³ the other. The black mood was on him, and at these times he had no respect of persons. He was, indeed, like one possessed⁸⁴ of an evil spirit. "Kit was a favourite always, and now he gets all errands."
 
"He can keep his temper, Michael, under hardship. I've proved him, and I know. A soldier needs that gift."
 
Michael met the rebuke⁸⁵ sullenly⁸⁶, but made no answer, and a restless silence followed.
 
"My lad," said the Squire by and by, "you broke into a fine dream of mine. There were six-score Metcalfs, I fancied, pledged to ride together. Now there is one less."
 
"How so? We've a few wounds to boast of between us, but no dead."
 
"One of us is dying by slow stages. Jealousy⁸⁷ is killing⁸⁸ him, and I tell you, Michael, I'd rather see the plague among us than that other pestilence⁸⁹ you're nursing. The sickness will spread. When times are slack—food short and nothing to be done by way of blows—you'll whisper in this man's ear and in that man's ear, and turn their blood to ice."
 
A great, overmastering repentance⁴³ swept Michael's devilry away. He was himself again. "I love Christopher," he said very simply, "though I'm jealous of him."
 
"Ay, I know! But take this warning from me, Michael,—when the black dog's on your shoulder, shake him off. Jealousy's your prime failing. It will break up our company one day, if you let it."