At Oxford1, there was expectation threading the routine of Court life. The fine light of devotion to lost causes—causes lost because they were ever too high for mean folks' understanding—had cradled this good city. Chivalry3, the clean heart and the ruddy, fervid4 hope, had built her wonderland of colleges and groves6 and pleasant streets. Men of learning, of passionate7 fervour for the things beyond, had lived and died here; and such men leave about the place of their bodily sojourn8 a living presence that no clash of arms, no mire9 of human jealousies10, can overcome.
For this reason, all Oxford awaited the coming of the Metcalfs. They in the north—men well content, not long ago, to follow field-sports and the plough—were different in breed and habits from these folk in the comely11 city. But, in the matters that touch dull workaday into a living flame, they were of the same company—men who hoped, this side or the other of the veil, to see the Standard floating high above life's pettiness. And, for this reason, Oxford waited the Metcalfs' coming with an expectancy12 that was oddly vivid. The gamesters of the Court wagered13 heavily as to the hour of their arrival. Grave dons, who happened to be interested in the mathematics more in favour at the sister University, drew maps of the route from Banbury to York, calculated the speed of messengers spurring at the gallop14 north, and the return pace of riders coming south on horses none too fresh. These had recourse to algebra15, which seemed only to entangle16 the argument the more.
Queen Henrietta Maria and the ladies of the Court made no calculations. Michael and Christopher were here, big, wind-browned men, who seemed unaware17 that they had done anything worth praise; and the Queen, with her French keenness of vision, her late-learned English view of life, knew that two gentlemen had come to Oxford, men made in the image of chivalry, ready to live or die with gallantry.
So the two brothers were spoiled outrageously19, until, on the second day, Kit20 was despatched alone to Lathom House in Lancashire.
"Take all the quieter byways," said Rupert, as he saw him get to saddle. "Tell the Lady of Latham to hold out a little longer. And tell her from me, Well done!"
Rupert sighed as he turned away. He was fretting21 to be at Shrewsbury, raising his company for the relief of York; but he was kept in Oxford here by one of those interminable intrigues22 which had hampered24 him for months past. The older men whose counsel the King trusted—Culpepper, Hyde, and the rest—were jealous of Rupert's conspicuous26 genius for warfare27. The younger men were jealous of the grace—a grace clean-cut, not foppish28, resolute29—which endeared him to the women of the Court. He was accused of treachery at Bristol, of selling his honour for a sum of gold; it was said that he dallied30 here in Oxford for reasons known to the Duchess of Richmond. No lie was too gross to put in circulation, by hint, or question, or deft31 innuendo32. Day by day, hour by hour, men were dropping poison into the King's ear and the Queen's; and at the Councils, such as this that kept him here just now, he saw across the table the faces of men obstinately33 opposed to him. Whatever he suggested was wrong because he was the spokesman; whatever was in blunt contradiction to his view of the campaign was applauded. The Duke of Richmond, his friend and ally, was with him, and one or two younger men who had no gift of speech in these times of stress. For the rest, he was alone, a man of action, with his back to the wall in a battle of tongues.
He carried himself well enough even to-day, when the meeting was more stormy than usual. His dignity was not a cloak, but an inbred strength that seemed to grow by contact with adversity.
"So, gentlemen," he said, at the close of the Council, "you have had your way so far as talk goes. Now I have mine. I hold a commission from the King to raise forces for the relief of sundry35 garrisons36. I shall relieve those garrisons in my own way. Meanwhile, you may hold Councils without number, but I would recommend tennis to you as a healthier pastime."
They watched him go. "The d—d young thoroughbred!" spluttered Culpepper. "We'll get a bit between his teeth, one of these days, and teach him discipline."
Rupert made his way across the High Street, a curious soreness at his heart. Discipline? He had learned it in his teens—the self-restraint, the gift of taking blows and giving them with equal zest37. But this new school he was passing through was harsh, unlovely. There was York, waiting for relief; there was Lathom House, defended with courage unbelievable by Lady Derby and a handful of hard-bitten men; there were twenty manors38 holding out in hope of the succouring cavalry39 who did not come; and he was kept here to attend a Council, to listen to veiled jealousy40 and derision, when all he asked for was a horse under him and grace to gather a few thousand men.
As he neared Christ Church, intent on seeking audience of the King, and stating frankly41 his own view of his enemies, he encountered Michael Metcalf crossing hurriedly from a side street.
"Well, sir?" he asked, with a sense of friendship at sight of a man so obviously free of guile42. "Have they done wagering43 in Oxford as to the hour your kinsmen44 ride in?"
"I think the play runs even faster. Some learned dons have brought the heavy guns of algebra to bear on it, and all the town is waiting for their answer to the riddle45."
"All's topsy-turvy," laughed the Prince. "If dons have taken to giving the odds46 on a horserace, where will Oxford end? But you were hurrying, and I detain you."
Michael explained that the King had commanded his presence at the Deanery; and the other, after a brief farewell, turned on his heel. After all, his own business with the King could wait until this reigning47 favourite in Oxford had had his audience.
Just across the way was Merton, where the Queen's lodging48 was. Rupert had had his fill of disillusion49 and captivity50 here in the loyal city; he was human, and could not hide for ever his heartache to be out and doing, lest it ate inward with corrosion51. He crossed to Merton, asked for the Queen, and was told that she had gone out a half-hour since to take the air. The Duchess of Richmond was within, he learned in answer to a second query52.
The Duchess was stooping over a table when he was announced. She added a few quick strokes to the work she was engaged on, then rose.
"You, my Prince?" she said, with frank welcome. "You come from the Council? I hoped that you would come. Were they as always?"
"My lord Cottington's gout was at its worst, and he in the same mood as the disease. Digby's mouth was more like a Cupid's bow than ever, and he simpered well-groomed impertinences. How I loathe53 them, Duchess."
"You would."
She turned for a moment to the window, looked out on the May sunlight and the dancing leaves. All the vigour54 of their loyalty55 to the King—her husband's and her own—all the dreams they had shared of monarchy56 secure again, and rebellion trampled57 underfoot, were summed up in Rupert's person. He had done so much already; he was resolute to go forward with the doing, if the curs of scandal and low intrigue23 would cease snapping at his heels.
She turned from the window. "My Prince," she said, touching58 his arm with the grace that gives courage to a man, "you do well to come here for sanctuary59 between the pauses of the battle. If you knew what my husband says of you, if you guessed the many prayers I send you——"
The keen, happy smile broke through from boyhood's days. "Duchess," he said very simply, "I am well rewarded. What were you busy about when I intruded60?"
She showed him her handiwork. "One must do something these dull days," she explained, "and it was you who taught me this new art of etching. Am I an apt pupil?"
Rupert looked at the work with some astonishment61. The art was in its infancy62, and difficult; yet she had done very well, a few crudities apart. The etching showed a kingfisher, triumphant63 on a rock set in midstream; at its feet lay a half-eaten grayling.
"It is not good art, because it ............