Christopher Metcalf had learned the way of hazard, the need to say little and hear all. As he rode from Lathom House through the summer's dawn, the land was full of blandishment. Last night's heavy rain had brought keen scents1 to birth—of primrose2 and leafage in the lanes, of wallflowers in the homestead gardens that he passed. Scents tempt3 a man to retrospect4, and he wondered how it was faring with Joan—remembered the nearness of her and the fragrance5, as they roamed the Yoredale hills together in other springs.
He put blandishment aside. There was no before or after for him—simply the plain road ahead. Wherever he found a countryman to greet, he drew rein6 and passed the time of day, and got into talk with him. Before he had covered six miles, he learned that Rigby, with the three thousand men withdrawn7 from the siege of Lathom, had in fact retreated behind the walls of Bolton, and that the town was strongly fortified8. A mile further on his horse cast a shoe, and, while he waited at the door of a wayside smithy, he joined a company of gossips seated on the bench outside.
"Thanks be, the Lady o' Lathom is safe," said a grey old shepherd.
"A rare game-bird, she," assented9 the jolly yeoman on his left.
"Ay. She's plucked a few fine feathers from Rigby. Rigby? I mind the time when he was skulking11 in and out—trying to find wastrel12 men who'd pay him to prove black was white in court. And now he calls himself a Captain."
"Well, he's as he was made, and of small account at that," said the yeoman. "The man I blame is Colonel Shuttleworth. One o' the gentry13, he, and likeable. There's no good comes, say I, when the gentry forget their duty to their King. They go to kirk each Sabbath, and pray for the King's health—well, they mean it, or they don't mean it, and there's no middle way."
Kit14 felt at home. These men were of the country stock he knew by heart. "Friends," he said, "I'm a stranger here in Lancashire. Who is Colonel Shuttleworth?"
"Oh, just a backslider!" The yeoman's face was cheery by long habit, even when he condemned15 a man. "He's sent fifteen hundred men to help Rigby garrison16 the town of Bolton. The likes of him to help the likes of Rigby—it makes us fancy the times are upside down."
Kit Metcalf, when his horse was shod, rode forward swiftly. A league this side of Bolton, where the track climbed steep between banks of ling and bilberry, he saw a man striding a white horse. Man and horse were so big that they blotted17 out a good part of the sky-line; so he knew that there was a kinsman18 waiting for him.
"Yoi-hoi!" yelled Kit. "A Mecca for the King."
The horseman shielded his eyes against the sun as he watched the up-coming rider. Then a laugh that Kit remembered floated down-wind to him.
"Why, Michael, what are you doing here?" he asked, as he drew near.
"To be frank, I was yawning just before you came. I've been waiting since daybreak for some messenger from Lathom. And at the end of it you come, white brother of the Metcalf flock—you, who have the luck at every turn."
"I had luck this time—fifteen sorties since I saw you last. Michael, you should have been there with us. We brought their mortar19 in——"
"Good," drawled Michael. "You had the luck. For my part, I've been sitting on a horse as thirsty as myself for more hours than I remember. Let's get down to camp and a brew20 of ale there."
"And afterwards we sortied—sortied till we drove them into hiding, like rabbits. The Lady of Lathom welcomed us home each night, her eyes on fire."
"No doubt, brother. The tale will warm me by and by. Meanwhile I don't care a stiver what fire shone in my lady's eyes—blue, or grey, or black. Give me honest ale, of the true nut-brown colour."
"You're a wastrel, Michael," laughed the younger brother, glad to pass badinage21 again with one of his own folk.
"I am, my lad, and know it. There's luck in being a wastrel—folk expect nothing from a man. He goes free, while such as you—babe Kit, if you guessed how prisoned up you are! They look for sorties, gallops22 against odds23, moonshine of all sorts every day you live. You've a nickname already in Oxford24. They name you the White Knight25."
"Oh, be done with banter," snapped Christopher. "There's little knighthood about me. Let's get down to camp and see the colour of that ale of yours."
When they came to the heathery, rising land wide of Bolton, and the sentry26 had passed them forward, Kit found himself face to face with Prince Rupert once again.
"The White Knight brings news," Michael explained in his off-handed way.
"Pleasant news?" the Prince asked. "Is Rigby dead, or the siege raised?"
"By your leave," said Kit, "the siege is raised. Rigby has gone to Bolton-le-Moors, to hide there. He has what are left of his three thousand men, and fifteen hundred others. The town is strong."
"Good, sir!" Fire—deep, glowing fire—showed in Rupert's eyes. "Lady Derby is a kinswoman of mine; and if Rigby is in Bolton, I know where to find the fox she loathes27."
A big, tired figure of a man pushed his way through the soldiery. "I heard someone speak of Lady Derby?" he said.
Prince Rupert touched him on the shoulder. "I did, friend," he said, with a quiet laugh. "There's none so touchy28 as a husband who chances to be his wife's lover, too. My Lord Derby, this is Mr. Metcalf, known otherwise as the White Knight. He brings news that Rigby the fox has slunk into Bolton. Best put our hounds in and drive him out of cover."
"Give me the assault," said Lord Derby drily.
"I cannot. Your name glamours29 Lancashire. I will not have you risk all in driving a red fox into the open."
Derby yielded to the discipline engrained in him, but with a bad grace. The Prince, himself eager for the assault, but ashamed to take a leadership which on grounds of prudence31 he had refused the other, asked for volunteers. When these were gathered, the whole force marched on Bolton and halted within five hundred yards of the stout32 walls. Then the assaulting party came forward at the double.
"Not you, Mr. Metcalf," said Rupert, detaining Christopher as he ran forward to join in any lively venture. "We cannot spare you."
What followed was a nightmare to the lookers-on. They saw the volunteers reach the wall and clamber up—saw a fierce hand-to-hand struggle on the wall-top, and the assault repulsed33. And then they saw the victors on the rampart kill the wounded in cold blood.
Some pity, bred of bygone Stuart generations, stirred Rupert. Wrath34 and tears were so mingled35 that his voice was harsh. "I give you freedom, Derby, to lead the next attack."
Without pause or word of thanks, Lord Derby got his own company together.
"We fight for my wife, who holds Lathom well," he said to his men.
Then they ran to the attack. Kit, looking on, was astonished to see that Prince Rupert, who had talked of prudence where lives of great men were concerned, was running with the privates of Lord Derby's company. So he, too, ran.
The fight on the wall was bitter, but the King's men prevailed. Over the bodies of their friends, massacred against all rules of war, they leaped into the town. The first man Lord Derby met was a groom36, lately in his service at Lathom, who had gone over to the enemy. The man struck a blow at him with the clubbed end of a musket37, and Derby parried it, and gave the rogue38 a better death than he deserved—at the sword's point.
They pressed forward. Once they were hemmed39 in—six of them—after a fierce rally of the garrison had swept the Royalists aside. One of the six was Prince Rupert; and Kit Metcalf felt the old Yoredale loyalty40 stir in his veins—a wildness and a strength. He raised a deep-bellied cry of "A Mecca for the King!" cut down the thick-set private who was aiming a blow sideways at Rupert's head, and then went mad with the
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CHAPTER XIII. THE LADY OF LATHOM.
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CHAPTER XV. TWO JOLLY PURITANS.
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