The White Horses, Page 3

  *CHAPTER III.*

  *SOME MEN OF FAIRFAX'S.*

  Joan Grant, when she bade Christopher climb a high tree if he sought herheart, had not told him that she was taking a journey. When afterwardsshe waved a farewell to him, as he rode out with his kinsfolk, she hadgiven no hint that she, too, was following adventure on the morrow.

  The day after the Metcalfs, a hundred-and-twenty strong, journeyed toserve King Charles, she set out on a more peaceful quest. Her aunt,Lady Ingilby of Ripley, had commanded this favourite niece of hers--allin my lady's imperious, high-handed way--to join her in the widowhoodthat her husband's absence with the Royal army enforced on her. Her ownfather was somewhere in Oxfordshire with the King, her brothers withPrince Rupert, and in their absence Lady Grant had decided that herdaughter must obey the command.

  "I was always a little afraid of my sister of Ripley," she explained, inher pretty, inconsequent way. "She would not forgive me if I kept youhere; and, after all, the roads may not be as dangerous as one fancies.You must go, child."

  Joan took the road with some pomp. All the younger men had gone withthe master to the wars; but her chaise was guarded by two oldmenservants who had pluck and good pistols, if no great strength tofight pitched battles; and she had her maid Pansy with her in thechaise.

  "Do you know, mistress, what I found at the gate this morning?" askedthe maid, as they went through the pleasant vale of Wensley.

  "I could not guess, Pansy."

  "Why, a stirrup-iron. Horseshoes are lucky enough, but astirrup-iron----"

  Joan laughed eagerly; she had the country superstitions close at heart,because she, too, was a daleswoman. "There's a knight riding somewherefor me, Pansy."

  "Knights are as knights do," said the other, with the Puritan tartnessingrained in her. "For my part, I'll hope he's better than most men.It's not asking much."

  "In the doldrums, girl? I shall have to train you. It's easier tolaugh, than cry--that's the true Royalist faith."

  Pansy--half maid, half confidante, and altogether spoiled--began towhimper. "It's easy to laugh, with all the road in front of you, and ariding knight ahead. I've no man to think of, and that leaves a womanlonesome-like."

  "It is not for want of suitors," said Joan, humouring her maid as goodmistresses do. "You had your choice of the dalesmen, Pansy."

  Pansy bridled a little and shifted her headgear to a more becomingangle. "Ay, but they're rough." Her speech relapsed into themother-tongue she had tried often to forget. "A lass that kens moredoesn't mate with the li'le bit less. She has her pride."

  The mistress did not answer, but fell into a long reverie. What wastrue of the maid was true of herself. Young Kit Metcalf, riding for theKing, was just "the li'le bit less," somehow. She had a regard for him,half real and half fanciful; but he seemed shut off from her by someintangible difference that was not uncouthness, but something near toit. He was big and forthright, and shocked her daintiness.

  They went through the pleasant dale. In Wensley village they met awaggon coming home with corn, ingathered for the threshing. All downthe valley men were reaping in the fields. The land yielded itsproduce, and folk were gathering it as if no blight of civil war hadfallen about the land. This, too, disturbed Joan Grant. She hadpictured her journey to Ripley as one long road of peril--a battle toevery mile, and danger's swift excitement scudding on before her.

  "There's no war at all, Pansy," she said fretfully, watching mile aftertranquil mile go by. "They gather in their corn, and the peace isundisturbed."

  "We should be thankful for the mercy," said the maid austerely.

  "Oh, we should, girl, but we're not. Undoubtedly we are not thankful."

  At Skipton, the day before, there had been battle enough, as the RidingMetcalfs knew. When the fight was ended, and they had spiked the gunslying wide across the highway of the Raikes, they gathered for theforward ride. A hundred-and-twenty of them had ridden out, and not onewas missing from their number, though half of them were carrying wounds.

  Old Metcalf--"Mecca," as his kinsfolk had the name--rounded up hiscompany. "The Governor tells me, lads, that a company of Fairfax's menare coming through. We've to go wide of Skipton and ambush them."

  Battle sat finely on the man. He had no doubts, no waywardness. He washere for the King, to take orders from those placed above him, and toenforce them so far as his own command went.

  "A Mecca for the King!" roared Christopher, the six-foot baby of theflock.

  The cry was to sing like a northern gale through the Yorkshirehighlands; and now the running uproar of it drifted up the Raikes asthey came to the track that led right-handed down to Embsay village.Down the pasture-lands they went, and through the small, grey township,and forward on the road to Bolton Abbey. Half between Bolton and LongAddingham they met a yeoman jogging forward at a tranquil trot.

  "Why, Squire Metcalf, it's a twelve-month and a day since we set eyes oneach other," he said, reining up. "Are you riding for Otley market?"

  "Ay," said Metcalf, with a dalesman's wariness. "Is there aught stirringthere, Demaine?"

  "Nay, nowt so much--not enough to bring all your Nappa men with you,Squire. Maybe it's men you're seeking, instead of ewes and cattle."

  "Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't."

  "Well, if it's men you're seeking, you'll find 'em. I overtook threehundred of Fairfax's soldiery just setting out from Otley."

  "Oh, you did? Were they horsed?"

  "No, they were going at a sharp marching pace. They were a likely set o'lads to look at--thick in the beam, but varry dour of face. I take nosides myself in this business of King and Parliament. I only say,Squire, that a nod's as good as a wink in troubled times."

  "Thanks, Demaine," said the Squire of Nappa.

  "Nay, no need. Neighbour knows neighbour, and good day to ye."

  The whole intimacy of the dales was in that brief greeting--thefreemasonry that ran like quicksilver in between the well-laid plans ofambitious generals. Fairfax had sent three hundred of his men tostrengthen Lambert's attack on Skipton Castle. A country squire and ayeoman met on the highway and talked a while, and there was an ambush inthe making.

  "Hi, Christopher!" said the Squire, beckoning the lad to his side."Ride forward on the Otley road till you see those men of Fairfax's.Then turn about and gallop."

  Kit saluted gravely, as he or any Metcalf of them would have saluted ifthe chief bade them ride through the Fiery Gate. His wounds smarted ashe rode for Otley, and he relished the keen pain. He was young, withhis eyes to the stars, and suffering for the King's sake was haloed byromance.

  He went through Ilkley. Its straw-thatched cottages clustered round thebrown stream of Wharfe; and, half a mile beyond, he saw a company of menon foot marching with quick and limber step. He forgot his wounds.With a boy's careless devilry, he galloped to meet them and reined upwithin twenty paces.

  "Are you my Lord Fairfax's men?" he asked. "If so you're needed atSkipton. Put your best foot forward."

  "We're Lord Fairfax's men, sir," said the officer in command. "Do youcome from Captain Lambert?"

  "From Skipton--yes, I come from Skipton. There's need for haste."

  With a laugh and a light farewell, Kit reined about and spurred hishorse. When he came to the top of the hill overlooking the wonderful,quiet sweep of river that rocked despoiled Bolton Priory into dreams ofyester-year, he found his kinsmen waiting on the rise.

  "What news, Kit?" asked the Squire.

  "Sir, it will be butchery," said the lad, stirred by generous pity."There's a big company of them, all on foot, and I--have led them intoambush."

  Squire Metcalf snarled at his baby-boy. "The King will be well rid ofhis enemies. Men do not fight, Kit, on milk-and-water fancies."

  A laugh went up from the Metcalfs--a laugh that was not easy for any ladto bear. "I've given my message, sir. Put me in the front of thehazard, if you doubt me."

>   The Squire had one of his sharp repentances. This son of his had shamedhim, and for a moment he strove with the hot temper that was theinheritance of all the Metcalf breed.

  "You shall lead us, Kit," he said at last.

  The time seemed long in passing before the three hundred men ofFairfax's came marching at a stubborn pace into the hollow down below.Then, with a roar of "A Mecca for the King!" Christopher was down amongthem with his kinsmen.

  When all was done, there was nothing left of the three hundred except apress of fugitives, some prisoners, and many bodies scattered on thehighroad. The garrison at Skipton might sleep well to-night, so far asrecruits to the besieging forces went.

  It was the prisoners who troubled the Squire of Nappa. His view of warhad been that it was a downright affair of enemies who were killed orwho escaped. He glanced at the fifty captives his men had taken, massedtogether in a sullen company, and was perplexed. His roving troop ofhorse could not be burdened with such a dead weight of footmen. Thegarrison at Skipton Castle would not welcome them, for there were mouthsenough to feed there already.

  "What shall I do with them, lads?" he asked, riding apart with his men.

  Michael Metcalf, a raking, black-haired fellow, laughed carelessly."Best take powder and pistols from them and turn 'em adrift like sheep.They'll bleat to little purpose, sir, without their weapons."

  The Squire nodded. "Thou'rt not noted for great strength of head,Michael, save so far as taking blows goes, but that was sage advice."

  The Metcalfs, trusting first to their pikes, and afterwards--thegentry-sort among them--to their swords, were disposed to look askanceat the pistols as tools of slight account, until Michael again foundwisdom. King's men, he said, might find a use for weapons the enemyfound serviceable.

  When the arms had been gathered, Squire Metcalf reined up in front ofthe prisoners. "Men of Fairfax's," he said bluntly, "you're a raggedlot to look at, but there are gentlemen among you. I do not speak ofrank or class. The gentlemen, as the price of freedom, will take nofurther part in the Rebellion. The louts may do as they please, butthey had best not let me catch them at the fighting."

  The words came hot and ready, and though the dispersed company ofprisoners laughed afterwards at the Squire's handling of the matter,they warmed to his faith in them. They had volunteered from manyoccupations to serve the Parliament. Blacksmiths and clothiers andcarpenters from Otley were mingled with farmers and slips of the gentryfrom the outlying country. All answered to the keen issue SquireMetcalf had given them. They were trusted. On the next day twenty ofthem lost hold of his message, and went in search of arms; but thirtywere constant to their pledge, and this, with human nature as it is, wasa high tribute to the Squire's persuasiveness.

  The Metcalf men rode quietly toward Skipton. For the first time sincetheir riding out from Nappa, they felt lonely. They had fought twice,and their appetite was whetted; but no other battle showed ahead. Theywere young to warfare, all of them, and thought it one happy road ofskirmish, uproar, and hard blows, from end to end of the day's journey.

  The only break in the monotony came as they rode up the steep track toEmbsay Moor. At the top of the hill, dark against the sunlit sky, asolitary horseman came into view, halted a moment to breathe his horse,then trotted down at a speed that the steepness of the road madefoolhardy. He did not see the Metcalf company until it was too late toturn about, and trotted forward, since needs must.

  "On which side of the battle?" asked Squire Metcalf, catching thebridle.

  "On which side are you, sir?"

  "The King's, but you are not. No King's man ever bandies questions; heanswers straight to the summons which side he stands for."

  They found a message after diligent searching of his person. Themessage was in Lambert's neat Quakerish handwriting, and was addressedto a captain of horse in Ripon, bidding him take his men to Ripley andkeep watch about the Castle. "That termagant, Lady Ingilby, is makingher house a meeting-place for Cavaliers," the message read. "Her husbandat the wars is one man only. She rallies twenty to the cause each day.See to it, and quickly."

  "Ay," said the Squire, with his rollicking laugh, "we'll see to it."

  It was astonishing to see the change in this man, who until yesterdayhad been content to tend his lands, to watch the dawn come up and sunsetdie over the hills he loved, and get to his early sleep. His father andhis grandfather had handled big issues in the open, though he himselfhad chosen a stay-at-home squire's life; and the thing that is in theblood of a man leaps forward always at the call of need.

  Squire Metcalf, with brisk courtesy, claimed the messenger's horse."Lest you ride back to Skipton with the news," he explained, "andbecause a spare horse is always useful these days. For yourself, getback at leisure, and tell Mr. Lambert that the Riding Metcalfs havecarried the message for him."

  Without another word, he glanced at the sun, guessed hastily the line ofcountry that pointed to Ripley, and rode forward at the head of his goodcompany. It was rough going, with many turns and twists to avoid wetground here, a steep face of rock there; but at the end of it they cameto a high spur of moor, and beneath them, in a flood of crimson--the sunwas near its setting--they saw the tower of Ripley Castle and the long,raking front of house and outbuildings.

  The Squire laughed. His face was aglow with pride, like the sunset's."I've few gifts, lads, but one of them is to know Yorkshire from end toend, as I know my way to bed o' nights. I've led you within sight ofRipley; the rest lies with lad Christopher."

  Michael, the black-haired wastrel of the flock, found voice.

  "Kit will be saddle-sore if he rides all your errands. Give one o' themto me, sir."

  The Squire looked him up and down. "You've a heart and a big body,Michael, but no head. I tell you, Kit must take this venture forward."

  So Michael laughed. He was aware that, if wits were asked, he must giveplace to Kit, whom he loved with an odd, jealous liking.

  "What is your errand, sir?" asked Christopher.

  The Squire put Lambert's letter into his hand, bade him read it over andover, then snatched it from him. "Have you got it by heart, Kit?"

  Kit repeated it word by word, and his father tore the letter into shredsand threw them to the keen west wind that was piping over the moor."That's the way to carry all messages. If you're taken, lad, they canturn your pockets inside out and search your boots, but they cannot findwhat's safe inside your head, not if they tap it with a sword-cut."

  There was a high deed done on the moor at this hour of the decliningday. Without a tremor or regret, the Squire of Nappa sent his son--theone nearest his warm heart--to certain danger, to a hazard from whichthere might well be no returning.

  "Find Lady Ingilby," he said gruffly, "and beware of Roundheads guardingthe approaches to the house. Give her the message."

  "And then, sir?"

  "It is this way, Kit," said the Squire, after a restless pacing up anddown the moor. "Take counsel with Lady Ingilby and any Cavaliers youfind at Ripley. Tell them the Metcalfs have picketed their horses hereon the moor, and wait for orders. If she needs us, we are ready. Andso good-bye, my lad."

  The Metcalfs, by habit, were considerate toward the hale, big bodiesthat asked good feeding. On the way they had contrived to victualthemselves with some thoroughness, and now they unstrapped each his ownmeal from the saddle. When they had eaten, and crowned the meal with adraught of water from the stream, Michael laughed that easy, thoughtlesslaugh of his.

  "When the King comes to his own, I'll petition him to make the moors runripe October ale. I never thrive on water, I."

  "It's not in you to thrive, lad," snapped the Squire. "You've no giftthat way, come ale or water."

  They had not been idle, any of them, since yesterday's riding out fromNappa; and now they were glad to lie in the heather and doze, and dreamof the cornfields ripe for harvest and the ingle-nook at home. TheSquire, for his part, had no wish for sleep. To and fro he paced in thewa
rm, ruddy gloaming, and his dreams were of the future, not the past.Ambition, that had taken his forbears to high places, was changing allhis old, quiet outlook. The King had summoned him. About his King therewas a halo of romance and great deserving. It was good to be asked tofight for such a cause.

  Metcalf did not know it, but his soul was ripening, like his own harvestfields, under this fierce sun of battle and peril and hard riding.Instead of a pipe by the hearth o' nights, he was asked to bivouac onthe moor, to throttle sleep until Kit rode back or sent a messenger. Hewas content. Better a week of riding for the King than years of safetyin home-fields.

  He had not cared specially for thinking, save of crops and horses andthe way of rearing prime cattle for market; but to-night his mind wasclear, marching out toward big issues. Little by little it grew plainto him that he had been given a leadership of no usual sort. There werea hundred-and-twenty of them, keen to charge with the whole weight ofmen and horses; but each of the six-score could ride alone on errandsneeding secrecy, and summon his kinsmen when any hazard pressed tooclosely. The clan was one man or six-score, just as need asked, and theSquire was quick to realise the service they could render. It mightwell be that, long afterwards, men would tell their bairns, closehuddled round the hearth on winter nights, what share the RidingMetcalfs had in crushing the rebellious Parliament.

  As he thought about it all, his heart beating like a lad's, hisimagination all afire, a step sounded close behind him. He turned tofind Michael at his elbow.

  "Well, scapegrace?" he asked. "It all goes bonnily enough."

  "Ay, for Christopher," growled the other. The black mood was on him,and at these times he had no respect of persons. He was, indeed, likeone possessed of an evil spirit. "Kit was a favourite always, and nowhe gets all errands."

  "He can keep his temper, Michael, under hardship. I've proved him, and Iknow. A soldier needs that gift."

  Michael met the rebuke sullenly, but made no answer, and a restlesssilence followed.

  "My lad," said the Squire by and by, "you broke into a fine dream ofmine. There were six-score Metcalfs, I fancied, pledged to ridetogether. Now there is one less."

  "How so? We've a few wounds to boast of between us, but no dead."

  "One of us is dying by slow stages. Jealousy is killing him, and I tellyou, Michael, I'd rather see the plague among us than that otherpestilence you're nursing. The sickness will spread. When times areslack--food short and nothing to be done by way of blows--you'll whisperin this man's ear and in that man's ear, and turn their blood to ice."

  A great, overmastering repentance swept Michael's devilry away. He washimself again. "I love Christopher," he said very simply, "though I'mjealous of him."

  "Ay, I know! But take this warning from me, Michael,--when the blackdog's on your shoulder, shake him off. Jealousy's your prime failing.It will break up our company one day, if you let it."