Part 11

There's no stimulus so fine as a dream nurtured in good soil. Blake went foraging by day, taking his share of other camp work, too; and, when his sleep was earned o' nights, he lay watching the stars instead and pictured this good entry into Oxford. The dream sufficed him; and, unless a man can feel the dream suffices, he might as well go chewing pasture-grass with other sleepy cattle.

On the sixth evening, when a grey heat-mist was hiding the sun an hour before his time, the last of the Metcalfs came in, the old Squire of Nappa at their head. And Blake put a question to the Squire, after they had known each other half an hour--a question that none of the others had known how to answer, though he had asked it often. "We have had excursions and alarms from Banbury, sir--a few skirmishes that taught them the cost of too great inquisitiveness--and I asked your folk why we gathered here, instead of skirting a town so pestilent."

"They did not tell you," chuckled the Squire, "because they could not, sir. I am used to asking for obedience. My lads learn the reason later on. But you shall know. I shall never forget, Mr. Blake, that it was you who brought me in my old age to the rarest frolic I ever took part in."

He explained, with a jollity almost boyish, that Banbury was notorious in Northern gossip as a hotbed of disloyalty, its folk ever on the watch to vex and hinder Oxford. So he proposed to sweep the town as clean as might be before riding forward.

Soon after dawn the next day, men and horses rested, they set about the enterprise. The sentry posted furthest north of Banbury ran back to give word that the camp was astir; the soldiers and townsmen, not knowing what was in the mind of this company that had been gathering on its borders these six days past, got to arms and waited. And then they heard a roar, as it were of musketry, as the Metcalfs gave their rally-call of "A Mecca for the King!"

There was no withstanding these men. They had more than bulk and good horses at their service. The steadfastness that had brought them south, the zeal that was like wine in their veins, made them one resistless whole that swept the street. Then they turned about, swept back again, took blows and gave them. The Banbury men were stubborn. They took the footman's privilege, when matched against cavalry, of trying to stab the horses; but the Metcalfs loved the white horses a little better than themselves, and those who made an essay of the kind repented it.

At the end of it Squire Metcalf had Banbury at command. "We can breakfast now, friends," he said, the sweat streaming from his jolly face. "I told you we could well afford to wait."

His happy-go-lucky prophecy found quick fulfilment. Not only was the place rich in the usual good food dear to the Puritans, but it happened that the wives of the town had baked overnight a plentiful supply of the cakes which were to give Banbury its enduring fame. "They're good cakes," laughed the Squire of Nappa. "Eh, lads, if only Banbury loyalty had the same crisp flavour!"

*CHAPTER XII.*

*PAGEANTRY.*

Oxford was keeping holiday. The Queen, sure that her husband was facing trouble at too short a range, persuaded him--for her own pleasure, she asserted--to hold a pageant in a field on the outskirts of the city. It was good, she said, that well-looking cavaliers should have a chance of preening their feathers until this dull waiting-time was over--good that tired ladies of the Court should get away from men's jealousies and wrangles, and air their graces. So a masque had been written and arranged within a week, the zest in it running side by side with the constant expectation of the Metcalfs' coming.

The masque was fixed for twelve o'clock; and, an hour before noon, the company of players began to ride up the High Street on their way to the playing field. Mary of Scots passed badinage with a Franciscan friar as they rode in company; a jester went by, tickling Cardinal Wolsey in the ribs until the great crowd lining either side the street laughed uproariously. The day was in keeping with it all--sunlight on the storied houses, lush fragrance of the lilac, the song of birds from every branch of every tree.

From up the street there came, sudden as a thunder-clap, the clash of horses' feet. The masqueraders drew aside, to right and left, with little heed for wayfarers. And down the lane, bordered thick with faces, there came a band of men who did not ride for pageantry.

In front of them--he had been thrust into leadership by the Squire of Nappa, who had guessed his ambition and his dream--rode a little man on a little, wiry mare. Blood was dripping from a wound on his cheek; his right arm hung limp. He did not seem to be aware of all this disarray, but rode as a conqueror might do. The dream sufficed him.

A draper in the crowd, whose heart was bigger than the trade that hemmed him in, raised a strident cry: "Why, it's little Blake! Wounds over him, from head to foot--but it's little Blake."

And then Blake's dream came true. To the full he tasted the incense of men's praise, long worked for, yet unsought. All down the High Street the running murmur went that Blake was here; and the people saw his wounds, the gay, courageous smile in answer to their greeting, and their cheers redoubled.

The pageant-makers, thrust aside by the steady, uncompromising trot of the Metcalfs, lost their first irritation--forgot the boredom that had settled on them during these idle days--and raised a cheer as lusty as the townfolks'. The street was one sunlit length of white horses moving forward briskly, four by four; the big men on them were white with dust, and ruddier splashes of the warfare at Banbury showed here and there. It was as if the days of old were back again, and Northmen riding, with a single heart and purpose, to a second Flodden. They moved, not as six-score men, but as one; and when the old Squire drew rein presently, they, too, pulled up, answering the sharp command as a sword answers to the master's hand.

"By your leave, sir," said the Squire, "we come in search of Prince Rupert. Can you direct us to his lodging?"

It happened that it was Digby he addressed--Digby of the soft voice, the face like a cherub's, and the tongue of an old, soured woman. "I could not say," he answered. Of all the Cavaliers there, he only was unmoved by the strength and fine simplicity of these riders into Oxford. "If I were aware where the Duchess of Richmond is to be found, I could direct you."

A stormy light came into the Squire's grey eyes. "We have heard of the Duchess. Her name is fragrant in the North, sir, save where ostlers gather at the tavern and pass gossip on for gaping yokels."

"Countered, you dandy!" laughed Digby's neighbour. "Grooms in Oxford and grooms in the North--hey, where's the difference?"

"We shall prove it, sir, at dawn to-morrow," said Digby, his hand slipping to his sword-hilt.

"Oh, content. I always liked to slit a lie in two, and see the two halves writhe and quiver."

The Squire of Nappa, looking at these two, guessed where the danger of the King's cause lay. Men see clearly when heart and soul and purpose are as one. If two of his own company had offered and accepted such a duel openly, he would have taken them, one in either hand, and knocked their heads together, in the interests of discipline. In Oxford, it seemed usual that private differences should take precedence of the King's service, and the Squire felt chilled for the first time since he rode out from Yoredale.

Prince Rupert had shared a late breakfast with the Duke of Richmond and the Duchess, who was, in heart and soul, a great lady beyond the reach of paltry malice. Rupert was moody, irritable. He was sick for pageantry in the doing--gallop of his cavalry with swords glancing on Roundhead skulls--blows given for the health of the reigning King, instead of play-acting to the memory of buried monarchs. He was passionately disdainful of this pageant in which he was to play a part, though at the moment he was donning mediaeval armour.

"I should have held aloof from it all," he protested.

"No," said the Duchess. "There could have been no pageantry without you. Believe me, it is good for us to have action, if only in the playing--it lights dull days for us."

Rupert strode up and down the floor with his restless, long-legged stride. "I'm to figure as Richard the Crusader," he said, tired of himself and all things. "I ask you, friends, do I show like a Crusader?"

"Your temper of the moment does not, but a man's past goes with him," she broke in, with her soft, infectious laugh. "Of all the King's gentlemen I know, my husband here, and you, stand nearest to the fine crusading days. To please us both, you will play your part?"

Rupert was beyond reach of blandishment. There was a fire from the over-world about him; men and women grew small in the perspective, and only the vigour and abiding zeal he had for the King's service remained to guide him, like a taper shining through a night of trouble.

"Friends," he said, simply as a child, "I had a dream last night. I dreamed that prayers were answered at long last, and that the sea rode into Oxford--a gallant sea, creamed with white horses riding fast."

"How should that be?" laughed the Duke. "It was a tired man's dream."

"It was more," said Rupert sharply. "It was a true vision of the days to come. I tell you, the white horses rode into Oxford like a crested sea. I knew they came to help me, and I grew tired of pageantry." He smiled at his own gravity, and reached out for his Crusader's sword. "Come," he broke off, "Coeur de Lion should be punctual to the tryst."

They came into the High Street, the three of them; and Rupert checked his horse with a thrill of wonderment. Not until now had he guessed what the strain of these last idle days had been. He saw the gallant sea ride into Oxford, as in his dream--saw it ride down to meet him, creamed with white horses moving at the trot. He was a free man again.

And then the crowd's uproar ceased. They saw Rupert, their idol, spur forward sharply, saw the company of Metcalfs halt as one man when their Squire drew rein.

"You are the Metcalfs, come from York, I think," said Rupert. Ten years seemed lifted from him in a moment. "Gentlemen, we've waited for you. The King will make you very welcome."

"We came to find Prince Rupert," said the Squire of Nappa, uncovering, "and, God be thanked, I think we've found him. You are like my picture of you."

The Squire's errand was accomplished. By hard stages, wakefulness o' nights, banter or the whiplash of his tongue by day, he had brought these high-mettled thoroughbreds into Oxford. It was a relief to take orders now, instead of giving them.

"Sir, they're asking for pageantry in Oxford," said the Prince, "and, by Richard Coeur de Lion, they shall have their fill. Permit me to command your troop."

The Duchess, not for the first time, was surprised by the right-to-be-obeyed that Rupert carried with him. Instinctively the Metcalfs made a lane between their sweating horses, and she found herself riding through the pleasant reek of horseflesh until they came to the end of this long avenue of men.

Rupert was himself again--no longer an idler, exchanging growls with enemies in Council, but a man, at the head of the finest cavalry even his proved judgment had encountered so far. When they came to the pageant field, he bade them dismount and do as they pleased for an hour; at the hour's end they were to be ready and alert.

When the King arrived by and by with his Queen, a great wave of loyalty went put to greet them. However it fared with his shifting fortunes, he was here among friends, and knew it. The knowledge was heartening; for Charles had gone through bitter struggle to keep an unmoved face when all he loved seemed racing to disaster.

The pageant moved forward; but the crowd was lukewarm until Richard the Crusader came, and then they went mad about the business.

"How they love him!" said the King, his face flushed with pleasure.

The Queen touched him on the arm as only wives do who have proved their men. "And you--how the good city loves you! To have captured Oxford's heart--ah, will you not understand how big your kingdom is? In London--oh, they are shopkeepers. In Oxford there is the great heart beating. Gain or loss, it does not matter here."

When the Crusading scene was ended, and while some affair of royalty granting a Charter to dull-witted burgesses was in the playing, Rupert came to the King's side. "There's a modern episode to follow, sir, if you are pleased to watch it."

"Ah, no!" pleaded the Queen, with her pretty blandishment. "It would be a pity, Rupert, to be less than Coeur de Lion. The armour fits you like a glove."

"I think you lived once in those days, Rupert of the fiery heart," laughed the King; "but no man thrives on looking back. Go, bring your modern mummers in!"

Rupert brought them in. He doffed his mediaeval armour somewhere in the background of the field, and donned the raiment he liked better.

"Are you ready, Metcalfs?" he asked, pleasantly.

With the punctilio that was part of the man, he insisted that the Squire of Nappa should ride beside him at the head of this good company. They thundered over the field, wheeled and galloped back. It was all oddly out of keeping with the pageantry that had gone before. In playing scenes of bygone centuries men gloss over much of the mud and trouble of the times; but here were six-score men who had the stain of present traffic on them.

The King himself, grave and reticent since the troubled days came, clapped hands as he watched the sweeping gallop, the turn-about, the precision of the troop when they reined in and saluted as if one man had six-score hands obeying the one ready loyalty. But the Queen grew pitiful; for she saw that most of these well-looking fellows carried wounds and a great tiredness.

"What is this scene you play?" asked the King.

"Sir, it is the Riding Metcalfs, come to help me raise recruits for the relief of York. Coeur de Lion died long ago, but these Northmen are alive for your service."

"My thanks, gentlemen," said Charles. "By the look of you, I think you could relieve York without other help."

Rupert pressed home his point. "Grant us leave, sir, to go wide through Lancashire and raise the siege of Lathom first. My Lord Derby was here only yesterday, after long travel from the Isle of Man."

The Queen, knowing how persistently Lord Derby had been maligned, how men had poisoned the King's mind against him, caught Rupert's eye and frowned at him. His nimble wit caught the challenge and answered it.

"Sir," he said, with the swiftness and assurance of a cavalry attack, "remember Lady Derby there at Lathom. She has held out for weary months--a woman, with a slender garrison to help her--has held out for the honour of the Stuart. Give me my Metcalfs, and other troops to raise, and grant us leave to go by way of Lathom House."

The King smiled. "I thought you a fighter only, Rupert. Now you're an orator, it seems. Go, rescue Lady Derby; but, as you love me, save York. There are only two cities on the map to me these days--York and Oxford. The other towns count loss and gain, as tradesmen do."

Long stress of misunderstanding, futile gossip of courtiers unemployed, dripping poison into the King's mind, were swept away. "As God sees me, sir, I ride only for your honour. The Metcalfs ride only for your honour."

"Ah, Coeur de Lion," laughed the King, "have your own way of it, and prosper."

At Lathom House, three days ago, there had been a welcome addition to the garrison. Kit Metcalf--he of the sunny smile, because he loved a maid and was not wedded to her whimsies yet--had ridden to the outskirts of the house, had dismounted, left his horse to roam at large, and had crept warily through the moonlight that shone on sleeping men and wakeful sentries. On the left of the moat, near the rounded clump of sedge that fringed its turning, he saw two sentries chatting idly between their yawns.

"It's a poor affair, Giles, this of keeping awake to besiege one woman."

"A poor affair; but, then, what could you look for from an officer of Rigby's breed? Sir Thomas Fairfax had no liking for the business. We've no liking for it."

Kit ran forward through the moonlight, gripped them with his right hand and his left--neither hand knowing just what the other was doing--and knocked their skulls together with the strength given him by Providence. They tumbled forward over the brink of the moat, and Kit himself dived in.

When he came to the water's top again, he swam quietly to the further bank, then went in great tranquillity up the grassy slope that led him to the postern gate, and was surprised when he was challenged sharply. Remembering what he had gone through for the Stuart, he thought, in his simple country way, that comrades of the same breed would know him, as dog knows brother-dog, without further parley. When he was asked who went there, his temper fired, though the wet of his crossing should have damped its powder.

"A Mecca for the King, you wastrel! Have you not heard of us?"

"By your leave, yes," said the sentry, with sudden change of front. "All Lancashire has heard of you. What is your business here?"

"To see Lady Derby instantly."

He was passed forward into the castle, and a grey-headed man-servant came to meet him. Again he said curtly what his business was.

"It is out of question, sir," the man protested. "My lady has had three sleepless nights. She gave orders that she should not be roused till dawn, unless, indeed, there was danger from the enemy."

Kit was headstrong to fulfil his errand to the letter. "Go, rouse her!" he said sharply. "I come from the King at Oxford, and my news cannot wait."

*CHAPTER XIII.*

*THE LADY OF LATHOM.*

All folk, even grey and pampered servants, obey the ring of true command in a man's voice; and after Kit had waited for what seemed a week to his impatience, a great lady came down the stair and halted at a little distance from him, and looked him up and down. Her face was lined with trouble; there were crows'-feet about her eyes; but she was dressed fastidiously, and her head was erect with challenge.

"Well, sir?" she asked sharply. "You rob me of sleep for some good reason, doubtless. Sleep? You could have asked no dearer gift. But the King himself commands, you say?"

Kit faced her ill-temper, and she liked him for it.

"My lady," he said, "Prince Rupert bids me tell you that he comes your way, for the relief of Lathom. He bids me tell you that Lathom House has lit a fire of loyalty from one end to the other of your county."

"So Rupert comes at last?" she asked eagerly.

"As soon as he can gather forces. Meanwhile, he sends me as his deputy, and that's one more sword-arm at your service."

Again she looked him up and down; and smiled. "I like big men. They help to fill this roomy house I'm defending for my husband and the King--for the King and my husband, I should say, if I were not a better wife than courtier."

Kit, for his part, could not take his eyes away from her. Two women of the breed he had seen before, and two only--the Queen, with courage gloved by French, disarming courtesy, and the downright mistress of Ripley Castle. As Lady Derby stood there, the traces of her twelve months' Calvary were apparent, because she had been roused suddenly from sleep, and pride had not asserted full control as yet. Under her tired eyes the crows'-feet showed like spiders' webs; her face was thin and drawn; and yet there was a splendour about her, as if each day of each week of hardship had haloed her with grace. She was, in deed as in name, the great lady--so great that Kit felt dwarfed for a moment. Then his manhood returned, in a storm of pity to protect this woman.

"Go sleep again," he said. "I was wrong to rouse you with my news."

She laughed, low and pleasantly, like a breeze blowing through a rose-garden. "I slept with nightmares. You are forgiven for rousing me with news that Rupert comes."

Then she, too, saw how weary this Riding Metcalf was, and touched him on the arm with motherly admission of his tiredness. "You need food and wine, sir. I was thoughtless."

The grey old servant, standing like a watch-dog on the threshold, caught her glance, and came in by and by with a well-filled tray.

"Admit that we are well-provisioned, Mr. Metcalf. The siege has left some niceties of the table lacking, but we do well enough."

She nibbled at her food, intent on keeping his riotous appetite in countenance. By the lines in his face, by the temperate haste with which he ate and drank, she knew him for a soldier older than his years.

"Tell me how it sped with your riding from the North?" she asked.

"It went bonnily--a fight down Skipton Raikes, and into the market-place. Then to Ripley, and running skirmishes; and, after that, the ride to Oxford. I saw the King and Rupert, and all the prayers I ever said were answered."

"Oh, I'm tired here, waiting at home with gunshots interrupting every meal. Tell me how the King looked."

"Tired, as you are--resolute, as if he went to battle--and he bade me give you the frankest acknowledgment of his regard."

"Ah, he knows, then--knows a little of what we've done at Lathom?"

"He knows all, and Rupert knows."

On the sudden Lady Derby lost herself. Knowledge that the King praised her, sheer relief that the Prince was marching to her aid, came like rain about her, breaking up the long time of drought. Then she dried her eyes.

"I, too, have fought," she explained, "and have carried wounds. Now, sir, by your leave, are you rested sufficiently? Well, then, I need you for a sortie by and by."

From the boy's laughter, his sharp call to attention, she knew again that he was of the soldier's breed.

"Weeks ago--it seems years by now--this Colonel Rigby who besieges us planted a mortar outside our gates. Our men sallied and killed many, and brought the mortar in."

"Good," said Kit. "I saw it as I came through the courtyard, and wondered whether you or they had put it out of action."

"My folk put it out of action. And now they've brought up another mortar. We dare not let it play even for a day on crumbling walls. There's to be a sortie within the hour. One of my officers is dead, and two are wounded. Sir, will you lead a company for me?"

"Luck always comes my way," assented Kit.

"But you do not ask what strength you have to follow you?"

"What strength you can give me. I am at your service."

When Lady Derby mustered all she could spare from her slender garrison, Kit found himself the leader of twenty men, some hale enough, others stained with the red-rust that attends on wounds.

"Friends," he said, "the moon is up, and there's light enough to guide us in the open."

They liked him. He wasted no speech. He was mired with travel of wet roads, and his face was grey and tired, but they knew him, for they had seen other leaders spur them to the hazard.

Some went out through the main gate of Lathom, and waited under shadow of the walls. Others joined them by way of little doors, unknown to the adversary. They gathered, a battered company, led by officers half drunk with weariness, and ahead they saw the moonlight shining on the mortar, reared on its hillock.