Part 17

"Oh, may be old--but not so much of a fool, maybe. He's in yonder, closeted wi' Lady Ingilby in the parlour. I kenned him at first sight by the lap of his ugly jaw. Come hitherto on the tips of your toes, Master Christopher."

The parlour door stood open, and within Kit saw a scene of such amazing oddity that he did not know whether he watched tragedy or comedy in the doing. The hearth was red with crackling logs. At the far end of the table sat Lady Ingilby, a cocked pistol lying close to her right hand; seated opposite her was a thick bulk of a man, with a rusty bandage tied round his neck; between them were four candles, burning with a tranquil flame.

"So you come, Mr. Cromwell, to quarter yourself here?" Lady Ingilby was saving.

"I do, madam."

"You come alone, knowing we are a house of women and of wounded men? Oh, the courage of you! And even our wounded have left us--not one of them so crippled but the news of Rupert's coming spurred him on to Marston."

"The news of Rupert's going will comfort them, maybe," growled Cromwell.

"He thrashed you handsomely. Oh, we have the news! First, a runner came, telling how Lord Fairfax and the leader of the Ironsides had left the field."

Cromwell's quick temper took fire. "You claim a woman's privilege----

"No, my pistol's. We talk as man to man. I say that we have the news. And then a second runner came and told us Leslie's Scots had won the battle. And we sorrowed, but not as if it had been you who claimed the victory."

The man was dead weary; but her scorn, quiet and assured, roused him. "Am I so hated, then, by your side of this quarrel?"

"Hated? That is a little word."

"Good! Any wayside fool can be loved--it takes a man to earn hatred."

"A man of sorts--granted. You will tell me, Mr. Cromwell, what your purpose was in coming to this house. My husband may be lying dead on Marston Field. Perhaps you came, in courtesy, to distract my grief."

"I came because Lord Fairfax bade me," said Cromwell bluntly. "We have no courtesy in Rutland, as you know. Mere folly must have bidden me leave my men outside, lest they intruded on you over-roughly."

"How many of them did Rupert leave you for a guard?" She was aware of an unexpected courtesy in the man's voice. It seemed no more than smooth hypocrisy.

"A few within call. They are not gentle."

"Nor I. As man to man--I stand for the husband who may return or may not--we are here, we two. You have a body of surprising strength, but it is I who hold the pistol. Believe me, Mr. Cromwell, I have learned your proverb well; I trust in Providence and keep my powder dry."

Christopher, watching them from the dusk of the passage, turned away. It did not seem that Lady Ingilby needed him. Yet he turned for a last glance--saw Cromwell's head fall prone on his hands. Weariness had captured him at length. The mistress of Ripley sat with upright carriage, seeing dream-pictures in the glowing fire of logs; and some were nightmares, but a silver thread ran through them--the knowledge that, whether he lived or lay dead, she had her husband's love.

"She bested him, and proper," chuckled Ben Waddilove. "When he came in, he looked like a man who might well go to sleep for good and all. We'll hope as much--and I was ever a prayerful man, as men go."

At the turn of the passage, where a lamp was smoking evilly, Kit saw a ghost come with unsteady step to meet him--a comely ghost, in white, fleecy draperies, a ghost that carried a sputtering candle. After Marston, and the carnage, and the desolate, long journey from the Moor to Ripley here, Christopher was ripe to fancy all beauty an illusion. It was only when he saw the red-brown hair, falling disordered about the whiteness of her gown, that his eyes grew clear.

"So you have come?" asked Joan Grant. "I did not summon you."

"Is that true, Joan?"

She would not meet his glance. "Why should I summon you?"

"Oh, that's for you to know. As we lay in the bean-field--the Prince, and father and I--you came and whispered."

"I travelled far, then, and must have galloped home at speed."

Old Waddilove, who knew his world, moved down the passage noisily. "For my part," he said, talking to himself, and thinking he only murmured, "I allus said like mun wed like, choose what pranks come between. They're fratching already, and that's a good sign. A varry good sign. There was niver two folks fit for wedlock till they've learned how to fratch. It clears their heads o' whimsies."

The draughty passage seemed full of Ben's philosophy. They could hear nothing else, except the steady swish of thunder-rain outside. And Joan laughed, because she could not help it.

There was no concealment then. Laughter opens more doors than the high gravity that lover-folk affect.

"My dear, you know that you came," said Kit.

"I know that I lay awake, sick with terror for you. I saw you fighting--oh, so gallantly--saw Rupert steal, a broken man, into a field of flowering beans, with only the Squire and you to guard him. And then I fell asleep--as if the bean-scent had stifled me, too--and I dreamed----"

"Well, Joan?"

"That you were hindered, somehow. That you came to great honour and forgot me."

"And that troubled you?" said Kit adroitly.

"Oh, till I woke! Then it seemed to matter little. My heart sits on the top of a high tree, Master Christopher, as I told you long ago."

All that he had fancied in the gaining seemed lost, all that the suffering and long anxiety of war had taught him. She was dainty, elusive, provocative, just as she had been in Yoredale, before her baptism of fire.

"Then why were you sick with terror for me?" he asked, as if downrightness served as well with women as with men.

"Why? Because, perhaps, it is rather cold in the tree-tops, and a heart comes down now and then for a little warmth. I shall bid you good-night, sir. You're in need of rest, I think."

"Joan," he said, "I love you very well."

She halted a moment. The light from her candle showed Kit a face made up of spring-time in a northern lane. Long battle, long abstention from a glimpse of her, brought the old love racing back at flood. And yet it was a new love, deepened and widened by the knowledge gained between the riding out from Yoredale and the stark misery of Marston Moor.

"You will let me go," she said at last. "Is it a time for ease of heart, when our men are dead, or dying, or in flight? They have told me how it sped at Marston--and, Kit, what of the King, when the news goes spurring south to him?"

What of the King? Their own needs--for one caress, one taste of happiness amid the rout--went by. Their loyalty was not a thing of yesterday; its roots lay thick and thrifty in soil centuries old.

"God forgive me," said Christopher. "I had forgotten the King."

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*WILSTROP WOOD.*

At four of the next morning Lady Ingilby's vigil was ended. There came a Parliament man to the gate of Ripley, asking urgently for General Cromwell. When he was admitted to the dining-chamber, he saw Cromwell with his head still prone upon the table--saw, too, the grim figure of a lady, who turned to level a pistol at his head.

"Your errand?" asked Lady Ingilby.

"With General Cromwell. He is needed at Long Marston."

"They are welcome to him. He's not needed here."

Cromwell shook himself out of sleep. "Who asks for me?" he said, getting to his feet.

For the moment he thought he was tenting in the open, with only one eye and ear closed in sleep before the next day's march began. Then he glanced round the parlour, saw Lady Ingilby's grim, contemptuous face. When the Parliament man had whispered his message, word for word, Cromwell, with grim irony, thanked his hostess for the night's hospitality, and asked if he were free to take the road.

"None more free. On the road, sir, you will meet the democracy whom you befriend--will meet your equals."

Humour had some hiding place in Cromwell's soul, after all. As they passed out, the messenger and he, he laughed quietly. "She's of Rupert's breed. They'd make good Parliament men, the two of them, if we could persuade them to our side of the battle."

Lady Ingilby opened the parlour window, listened till Cromwell's sharp command had brought his troopers into line, and heard them go on weary horses down the street. Then she went to the hall, in search of cloak and hood, and encountered Christopher.

"Good morrow, Mr. Metcalf," she said, after the first start of surprise. "One of your clan always comes when I'm most in need of you. My husband--does he lie dead on Marston Moor?"

"He was alive when we broke Cromwell's Ironsides, for I heard his cheery shout. After that Leslie routed us, and--I do not know."

"He may be alive, you think?"

"Why not? I shared the trouble with him, and I'm here."

Impetuous, strong for the deed, and strong for yielding to emotion afterwards, she came and touched him on the shoulder. "My thanks--oh, indeed, my thanks. Only to fancy him alive is peace to me. I need you," she added briskly. "You will take charge of my women-folk here, until I return from--from an errand of mercy."

"Let me take the errand."

"Ah, but you could not. Only I can do it. Sir, is it no welcome change for you to tend helpless women? You have had your holiday at Marston."

"It was a queer merry-making."

"But your wounds show to the public eye--wounds of honour. You carry the red badge of knighthood, sir, while I have only a few more grey hairs to show for all these months of waiting."

"You cannot go alone," he protested. "The roads will be full of raffish men."

"The roads must be as they will. For my part, I have to take a journey. Come, saddle me a horse, sir, by your leave. My grooms were all out with the King's party yesterday."

When they crossed to the stables, a shrill cry of welcome greeted them; and, for all the gravity of what was past, Kit could not check a sudden laugh. "Why, 'tis Elizabeth, the good ass that helped Michael into York! We thought to have lost her somewhere between this and Lathom House."

Elizabeth came and licked Kit's face; even if he were not Michael, the master well-beloved, he was at least near the rose. And then Kit pushed her aside; it was no time for blandishment.

There were two horses only, left behind because unfit for battle. They looked oddly lonesome, with the six empty stalls beside them stretching out into the lights and shadows thrown by the lantern.

"A man's saddle," said Lady Ingilby briskly. "You'll find it in the harness chamber yonder."

Kit, when the livelier of the two horses was ready, understood why she had chosen a man's saddle. It carried a holster; and into this, after looking at the priming and uncocking it with masculine precision, she slipped the pistol that had over-watched Cromwell's slumbers not long ago. And his wonder grew; for, during months of intimacy with Ripley's household, he had learned that Lady Ingilby, at usual times, was motherly, unwarlike, afraid of powder and the touch of sharpened steel.

As he led her horse to the mounting-steps at the far side of the stable-yard, the lilt of tired hoofs came up the roadway. Young dawn was busy up the hills, and into the grey and rosy light rode Michael. He was not dressed for a banquet. His clothes were yellow with the clay of Marston Moor, his face disordered by wounds lately dried by the night's east wind. But the soul of him was Michael's--wayward and unalterable.

"At your service, Lady Ingilby," he said. "I heard a donkey bray just now, and fancied it was Elizabeth, crying over milk spilled at Marston."

"It was no white milk, Mr. Metcalf, by the look of you."

"The thunder-rain was red in the ditches. It was a good fight, and it's ended. So, baby Kit, we're first to the tryst, we two. I've been wondering, all from Marston hitherto, whether you were dead or living."

Christopher found one heartache stanched. The sense that Michael was here, instead of on the wet ground of the Moor out yonder, was vivid happiness. "Elizabeth will be glad," he said indifferently. "She was crying for you not long ago."

Then he was urgent that Michael should be left here on guard, and he had his way. He borrowed the other's horse; and, after all, Lady Ingilby was glad to have an escort through the roads.

"You have news of my husband?" she asked Michael, without hope of any answer that sufficed.

"None," said Michael, "save that we were in the thick of it--Kit, and he, and I--and I heard a man near me say that Ingilby was fighting as if three men's strength were in his body."

"That is no news," said the other drily. "He was ever that sort of man."

When they had ridden out, she and Kit, and had come to the hollow where dog-roses and honeysuckle were blooming spendthrift to the warmer air of dawn; she turned in saddle. "Your brother spoke of coming to a tryst. What tryst?"

"It was this way. Before the relief of York, it was agreed among the Riding Metcalfs that, if the battle sped, Ripley could look to its own needs. If the fight was lost, we were to come soon or syne--those left of us--to guard you."

Lady Ingilby reined in--an easy matter with the pensioner that carried her. "In these evil modern times, are there still so many of the elder breed? One here and there I could understand, but not six-score of you."

"There are fewer now. We lost a few at Bolton, and Marston Moor was worse. Those who are left will come in. Their word is pledged."

The spaciousness of summer on the hills returned to Lady Ingilby. Siege, and hardship, and the red fight at Marston went by. Here was a man who had fought, lost blood and kindred to the cause--a man simple, exact to the promise made.

"I am glad of your escort, after all," she said. "You were breeked in the olden time, I think."

"What is our route?" asked Christopher by and by.

"To Marston. If my husband is abroad, well. If he's dead or dying, he may need me."

It seemed to Kit, through all the perils of the road, through the instant dangers that beset them from the thievish folk who hang upon the skirts of war, that a little, silver light went on ahead, guarding their passage. But he was country-born and fanciful. At Ripley, Michael the careless went indoors and found the old man-servant fidgeting about the hall.

"Well, Waddilove," he said, throwing himself on the long-settle, and holding his hands to the fire-blaze, "it seems long since I knew you as body-servant to Sir Peter Grant in Yoredale. I've fought and marched, and had my moments--ay, Ben, moments of sheer rapture when we charged--and now I come from Marston, and all's ended, save a thirst that will drink your cellars dry before I slake it."

Waddilove did not know "Maister Michael" in this mood of weariness. "Ye used to be allus so light-hearted, come shine or storm," he muttered.

"That is the worst of a high reputation. One falls to earth, old sinner. I've no jest, no hope, nothing but this amazing thirst. If there's wine left in the Castle, bring it."

Ben was literal in interpretation of an order. When he returned, he brought two bottles of Madeira and a rummer-glass.

"Oh, good!" said Michael, with something of his old laugh. "Fire and wine--I need them." He kicked the logs into a blaze. "It seems odd to need warmth, with midsummer scarce past, but I've brought a great coldness from the Moor. Gentlemen of the King's--men who should be living for him--are lying where they fell. There was no room for a horse's hoofs; one had to trample the loyal dead. Wine, Ben! Pour me a brimmer for forgetfulness."

And now Waddilove understood that this gay wastrel of the Metcalfs was on the edge of sickness--not of the body only, or the mind, but of the two. In his eyes there was a fever and a dread. Not knowing what to do--whether wine were friend or adversary--he obeyed the order. Michael drained the glass in one long, satisfying gulp. "One can buy peace so easily--at a price," he said. "Fill again for me, Daniel, and we'll drink confusion to Noll Cromwell."

While the wine was between the bottle and the glass, a little lady came into the hall. She had a carrot in her hand, and trouble was lurking in her young, patrician face.

"Who is this, Ben?" she asked, withdrawing a step or two, as she saw the patched and mud-stained figure on the settle.

"Michael Metcalf, at your service. No need to ask your servant vouch for me."

He had risen. From his great height, shivering and unsteady, he looked down at her.

"But, sir, you are unlike yourself. Your eyes are wild."

"So would your pretty eyes be, Mistress Joan, if you'd shared Marston Fight with me. I've seen a King lose his cause--his head may follow."

Joan was aware of some new strength behind the man's present disarray. "Does your love for the King go so deep, then? We thought you light of heart."

"Always the same gibe. I have talked with the King, and I know. Our lives were slight in the losing, if we had given him the battle. But we lost it. What matters now, Joan?"

"This, sir--that the King still needs his gentlemen."

Michael stood to attention. She had always bettered his outlook on life, even in his careless days. Now, with every nerve at strain, she showed him a glad, narrow track that went upward, climbing by the ladder of adversity.

"As for that," he said, with an odd smile, "I thank you for a word in season. It will keep Sir William's cellars from a period of drought."

Waddilove, watching the man, could only wonder at his sharp return to self-control. He did not know that, so far as Michael was concerned, Joan Grant brought always the gift of healing.

"Heartsease, that's for remembrance," said Michael, after a troubled silence, "and carrots, they're for Elizabeth the well-beloved."

She caught the sudden hope, the challenge in his glance. Clearly as if he had put the thought into speech, she knew that he clung to the old love, told more than once in Yoredale. He hoped--so wild a lover's fancy can be--that, because she fed his ass with dainties, she did it for the master's sake.

"Ah, no," she said sharply. "It is not good to play at make-believe. There is trouble at our doors--the King's cause drowning, and men lying dead out yonder. I go to feed Elizabeth, and you, sir, will stay here to guard the house."

Michael kicked the logs into a blaze, and watched the flames go up with a steady, thrifty roar. He turned presently, to find Waddilove asking whether he did not need a second brimmer of Madeira.

"To-morrow, you old fool! For to-night, I've the house to guard. Meanwhile, I've lit a lively fire--all my hopes, Ben, and most of my prayers, have gone scummering up the chimney-stack. I trust they find good weather out o' doors."

Christopher and Lady Ingilby, about this time, were nearing Marston Moor. As they reached Tockwith village, and were passing the farmstead where Cromwell had dressed the wound in his neck not long ago, five men rode out at them through the rosy light of dawn. Christopher, with battle still in his blood, shot the first at close quarters--a red and messy business. Then he reined about, with the instinct taught him by Rupert's cavalry, turned again, and charged the four remaining.

He found himself in the stour of it; for they were thick-set rogues, and had little to lose in this world or the next. It seemed that they must bear him down, after he had accounted for another of their number with his sword. Then a second pistol-shot rang out, and the man nearest Kit dropped from saddle as a fat, red plum falls from an autumn branch. His horse stampeded, and the two riders left galloped headlong for the woods.

Kit returned to find Lady Ingilby with a smoking pistol in her hand. Her voice was tremulous.

"Sir, if this is to feel as men do--ah, thank the good God I was born a woman. I aimed truly, and--and I have no pride in it."

Through the sunrise and the hot, moist scent of flowering hedgerows they made their way down the narrow farm-track which was henceforth to be known as Rupert's Lane. At the ditch and the battered hedgerow where Cromwell's horse had been driven back, a man on foot asked sharply who went there.

"Lady Ingilby, come to see whether her husband lives or is dead for the King."

"I cannot tell you, madam. There are so many dead, on both sides of the battle."

"But I must know. Give us free conduct through the lines, my friend here and myself; it is a little thing to ask."

The Parliament man was muffled in a great-coat, an unwieldy hat drawn over his eyes. But Christopher knew him, though Ingilby's wife, her heart set on one errand only, saw beyond and through him, scarce knowing he was there save as an obstacle to progress down the lane.

"It is granted," said the Roundhead, "if you permit me to bandage your eyes until we come to the place where Sir William fought. I know the place, because our men brought in high tales of his strength and courage."

"But why the bandage?" she asked peremptorily.

"Because, between here and where he fought, there are sights not good for any woman's eyes."

"Ah, tut! I've nursed men at Ripley who were not good to see. Their wounds were taken for the King, and so were pleasant."

They went through what had been the centre of the King's army--went through all that was left of the Whitecoats, thick-huddled with their faces to the sky. For a moment even Ingilby's wife was dizzy and appalled. There was no scent of summer hedgerows now. Then she took hold again of her unalterable courage.

"Oh, they died well. Lead on."

They came to the place where Sir William's company had fought; and the sun, gaining strength already to drive through the mists of last night's thunderstorm, showed her the faces of many folk remembered, but not her husband's.

"I thank God," she said simply. Then, as she turned to retrace her steps, the inbred courtesy of the woman surmounted the pain that had gone before, the passionate thanksgiving that followed. "I thank you, too, for conduct through the lines. What is your name, that I may remember it in my prayers?"

"At Ripley they would name me Noll Cromwell. I ask no thanks, and need none."

It was all muddled and astounding, as the battle of last night had been. The man she had scolded not long ago at Ripley--the man whose soul she had whipped raw, though she did not guess it--had offered courtesy. For this hour, at any rate, Cromwell was a mystic, seeing with the clearer vision and knowing the kind lash of penance. Since this wild campaign began, drawing him from his quiet estate in Rutland, he had known no happiness till now. This woman had flouted him; yet he was glad, with an amazing gladness, to succour her in need.

A man came running, and said that General Cromwell was needed in Tockwith village, where some trouble had broken out among his men. The mystic disappeared. The Cromwell of sheer flesh and blood showed himself. "Trouble, is there?" he snapped. "I've a short way with trouble of that sort. As for you, Lady Ingilby, the password is _Endeavour_, and I would recommend you to secure your retreat at once."

With a half-defiant salute he was gone, and, as they came again to the place where the Whitecoats lay, a party of Roundhead horsemen, riding by, halted suddenly.

"You are on the King's side," said the leader, with a sharp glance at Christopher. "I am Captain Murray, at your service, of Leslie's horse. I know you because you all but killed me in that last rally Rupert made. What, in the de'il's name, are you doing here--and with a lady?"

"We are under safe-conduct through the lines. Cromwell gave us the word _Endeavour_ not five minutes since."