It was no usual comradeship that held between the Royalists who gathered in one company after Marston Moor1 was lost to the King. They travelled through vile3 roads—roads broken up by incessant4 rains—they camped wherever they found a patch of drier ground for the night's sleep. But never for a moment did they lose the glamour5 that attached to the person of King Charles. Like a beacon-light, the thought of the half-vanquished Stuart went steadily6 in front of them. Their strength lay in this—that, whether death or life arrived, they knew the venture well worth while.
The life had a strange savour of its own. The Nappa Squire7, the late Governor of Knaresborough and his officers, Lady Ingilby—all had known the weight of harsh responsibility so long as the King's cause was alive in the North. The cause was dead now. There was no need to be at strain, sleeping or waking, with the sense that it rested with each of them to keep the monarchy8 secure. There was asked of them only a haphazard9 and stimulating10 warfare11, of the sort dear to all hillmen.
Scarborough Castle fell, and when the news was brought—they were dining at the moment in a wooded dell between Beamsley and Langbar—the Governor lifted his hat with pleasant gravity.
"God rest the gentlemen of Scarborough. They have earned their holiday, as we have."
Michael was busy with the stew-pot, hanging gipsy-wise on three sticks above a fire of gorse and fir-cones. "It's hey for Skipton-in-Craven," he said with a cheery smile. "I aye liked the comely12 town, and now the King will know that she was the last in all the North to stand for him."
"Maybe Skipton has fallen, too, by this time," chided the Squire. "You were always one for dreams, Michael."
Michael was silent till the meal was ended. Then he mowed13 a swath of thistles with his sword, and brought the spoil to Elizabeth, tethered to a neighbouring tree. She brayed14 at him with extreme tenderness.
"Now that we're well victualled, friends," he said lazily, "who comes with me to hear how it fares with Skipton?"
The Governor did not like the venture—the hazard of it seemed too great—but Squire Metcalf did.
"How d'ye hold together at all, Michael?" roared the Squire. "So much folly15 and such common sense to one man's body—it must be a civil war within yourself."
Michael glanced at Joan Grant with an instinct of which he repented16 instantly. "It is, sir. Since I was born into this unhappy world, there has been civil war inside me. I need an outlet17 now."
"You shall have it, lad."
"And you call this common sense?" asked the Governor, with good-tempered irony18.
"Ay, of the Yoredale sort. A blow or two in Skipton High Street—who knows what heart it might give the garrison19?"
"I must remind you that we have women-folk to guard, and our wounded."
"But, sir, this is a Metcalf riding, all like the olden time. We never meant your Knaresborough men to share it."
Yet some of the Knaresborough men would not be denied; and the Governor, as he saw the sixty horsemen ride over and down to Beamsley-by-the-Wharfe, wished that his private conscience would let him journey with them. He stood watching the hill-crest long after they had disappeared, and started when a hand was laid gently on his arm.
"It is hard to stay?" asked Lady Ingilby.
"By your leave, yes. Why should these big Metcalfs have all the frolic?"
"Ah, frolic! As if there were naught20 in life but gallop21, and cut and thrust, and——sir, is there no glory in staying here to guard weak?"
The Governor was in evil mood. He had seen the King's cause go, had seen Knaresborough succumb22, had watched the steadfast23 loyalty24 of a lifetime drift down the stream of circumstance like a straw in a headlong current.
"Lady Ingilby," he said wearily, "there is no longer any glory anywhere. It has gone from the land."
"It is here among us. Till we were broken folk, I did not know our strength. None but the Stuart, friend, could have kept us in such friendliness25 and constancy. Oh, I know! I saw you glance round for your horse when the Metcalfs went—saw your struggle fought out, sir—and, believe me, you were kind to stay."
They finished their interrupted meal at leisure; and it was not till about four of the clock that Miss Bingham, who had strayed afield to pick a bunch of valley lilies, came running back to camp. The two men in pursuit blundered headlong into the enemy before they saw their peril26; and they found scant27 shrift.
Miss Bingham, thoroughbred beneath her whimsies28, halted a moment to regain29 her courage. "These are but outposts, sir," she said. "From the hill-top I could see a whole company of Roundheads."
"Their number," asked the Governor—"and are they mounted?"
"More than our own, I think, and they go on foot."
"And half of us wounded. Come, gentlemen, there's no time to waste."
His weariness was gone. Alert, masterful, almost happy, he bade the women get further down the hill, out of harm's way. He gave his men their stations—little knots of them cowering30 under clumps31 of gorse and broom—until the land seemed empty of all human occupation. Only Elizabeth, the wayward ass33, lifted up her voice from time to time, after finishing the last of the thistles Michael had given her. And suddenly, as they waited, the Governor let a sharp oath escape him.
"This comes of letting women share a fight. In the name of reason, why is Miss Bingham running up the hill again?"
They peered over the gorse, saw the tall, lithe34 figure halt, clearly limned35 against the sky-line. They heard her voice, pitiful and pleading.
"Parliament men, I am alone and friendless. Will you aid me?"
A steel-capped Roundhead showed above the hill-crest. "There are plenty to aid such a comely lass as thee," he said, his rough Otley burr cutting the summer's silence like a blunt-edged knife.
"Then follow quickly."
The Governor laughed gently as he watched Miss Bingham turn and race down the hill. "A rare plucked one, she," he muttered, "kin2 to Jael, I fancy, wife of Heber the Kenite."
She passed close by him on her breathless run down hill and joined the women-folk below. And the next moment the red havoc36 of it began. The Roundheads saw their leader race forward, and followed in close order. Down the slope they poured, and every clump32 of gorse spat37 out at them with a red and murderous fire. Then the Knaresborough men were up and into them, and when their leader got back to Otley with the remnants of his men, he protested that "he'd fancied, like, they'd ta'en all the hornets' nests i' Yorkshire, but some few thrifty38 wasps39 were breeding still."
"Why do you laugh?" said Lady Ingilby, when the Governor came down to tell her all was well.
"Because luck is as skew-tempered as the jackass braying40 yonder. Have the Metcalfs had such frolic out at Skipton, think ye? And I was keen to ride with them—Miss Bingham, I owe you reparation. When I saw you move up the hill yonder, I cursed you for a woman."
"That was unwise, sir. As well curse Elizabeth because she is a donkey, and yearns41 for absent friends; or the jack-snipe, because his flight is slanting42; or any of us who are made as we are made."
"We thought you light of heart, child, in the old days at Knaresborough. Yet none of us could have planned a neater ambush43."
"It was my old pastime, after all. How often you've chided me for luring44 men into folly. Oh, what wise and solemn discourses45 you have given me, sir, on the unwisdom of it!"
"There was wisdom in it this time. But for the ambush, we could not have faced the odds46."
For the next hour she busied herself with bandaging the men's hurts; then, with a restlessness that had been growing on her since the Metcalfs went, she climbed the hill again. Only Blake saw her go. Unrest had been his comrade, too, since he found himself sharing this odd gipsy life with the woman he asked least to meet on this side or the other of the grave.
He followed with reluctance
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading
(Left Keyword <-) Previous:
CHAPTER XXI. SIR REGINALD'S WIDOW.
Back
Next:
CHAPTER XXIII. YOREDALE.
(Right Keyword:->)