there is nothing so astounding, so muddled by cross-issues and unexpected happenings, as civil war. not long ago marston moor had heard the groans of cavaliers as they lay naked to the night-wind, and prayed for death in wilstrop wood. york had surrendered. the garrisons of knaresborough and ripley, met together on the dusty highroad here, were weak with famine and privation. yet they stood chatting—the ladies of both garrisons passing laughter and light badinage with the men—as if they were gathered for a hunting-party or falconry. the intolerable pressure of the past months was ended for a while, if only by disaster; and from sheer relief they jested.
joan grant, in the middle of the chatter, edged her mare near to a sprightly horse-woman who had just dismissed michael with a playful tap of her whip across his cheek.
"you are miss bingham? ah, i guessed it."
"by what token?"
"by your beauty, shall we say? gossip has so much to tell about it, and about the vicarage garden, with nidd river swirling past the ferry-steps."
they eyed each other with the wariness of duellists. "the good vicar is fortunate in his garden," assented miss bingham, with the most charming courtesy.
"and in his water-nymphs, 'twould seem. i think you would be like some comely dream—on an april evening, say, with the young leafage of the trees for halo."
"oh, it is pleasant to be flattered! but why this praise of me? we were strangers not an hour ago."
"i have heard so much of you. you were so kind to the men who sortied from knaresborough and returned with wounds. you sat by the ferry-steps—all like a good angel—and bound their hurts afresh when they smarted. oh, indeed, we have heard of your pleasant skill in healing."
while they faced each other, there came the thud and racket of horse-hoofs down the road. the rider drew rein amid a swirl of dust, cleared his eyes with a hand that trembled, and looked from one face to another. his tired face lit up when at last he saw the governor of knaresborough.
"give you good-day, sir. i was riding to seek aid from you."
"the devil you were," growled the other. "the man sups lean who trusts to my help, graham. knaresborough's in other hands since—since marston."
"it would be. i had forgotten that. but you're here."
"what is your need, lad?"
"a few men to help me, over at norton conyers. i rode to ask if you could lend them me."
"all of us, if we're needed. we were jesting on the road here, for lack of other occupation. what is it? but, first, is your uncle safe—tough reginald graham? i love him as i love the steep rock-face of knaresborough."
"it was this way. my uncle would have me near him at marston. we were with rupert on the right wing, and were close behind one of the riding metcalfs—i know not which, for they're all big men and as like as two peas in a pod—and saw him cut cromwell through the throat. we were together when we broke the roundheads and pursued too far. it was when we came to the ditch again, and found leslie there with his scots, that i lost sir reginald. i took a wound or two in the stampede that followed, and was laid by in a little farmstead near wilstrop wood. the good-wife was kind to me—said she had lost a bairn of her own not long since, trampled down by flying horsemen at the gate."
"ay, lad; but why d'ye not get forward with your news of sir reginald?"
"because i cannot trust myself to speak of him without some folly in my throat. give me time, sir—give me time. i got about again in a day or two, and stumbled home somehow to norton conyers. and i—i met a black procession—all like a nightmare, it was—journeying to the kirkyard. so i joined them; and one man nudged another, and asked who this was coming in his tatters to the burial without mourning-gear. and i pointed to my wounds and laughed. 'mourning-gear enough,' said i. 'mourners go in blood and tatters since marston.' and then, they tell me, i fell, and lay where i fell. that was all i knew, till i got up next day with all my limbs on fire."
there was silence among those looking on—a deep and reverent silence. this youngster, out of battle and great pain, had captured some right-of-way to the attention of strong men.
"when i was about again, they told me how it chanced. sir reginald took a mortal hurt at marston, but rode with the best of his strength to norton conyers. he found lady graham at the gate, waiting for news of him; and he stooped from saddle, so they say, and kissed her. 'i could not die away from you, wife,' he said."
"ay," growled the governor, "he was like that—a hard fighter, and a lover so devout that his wife had reason to be proud."
"she tried to help him get from horse; but he shook his head. 'the stairs are wide enough,' was all his explanation. then he rode in at the main door and up the stair, and bent his head low to enter the big bed-chamber. he got from the saddle to the bed, lay with his eyes on fire with happiness, and so died."
"a good ending," said the squire of nappa roughly, because he dared not give his feelings play. "what i should call a gentleman's ending—leal to king and wife. oh, you young fool, no need to make a tragedy about it!"
graham answered gamely to the taunt that braced him. "as for that, sir, tragedy is in the making, if no help comes to norton conyers. we had word this morning that a company of roundheads was marching on the hall—the worst of the whole brood—those who robbed the dead and dying in wilstrop wood."
it was not the governor of knaresborough who took command. without pause for thought of precedence, squire metcalf lifted his voice.
"a mecca for the king, and bustle about the business, lads!"
the road no longer showed like a meeting-place where idle gentry foregathered to pass the time of day. the governor, with some envy underlying all his admiration, saw the metcalfs swing into line behind their leader.
"our horses are fresh," explained the squire over shoulder, with a twinge of punctilio. "do you follow, sir, and guard the women-folk."
"i shall guard them," said the governor, laughing quietly.
miss bingham saw joan watching the dust swirl and eddy in the wake of the riding metcalfs, saw that the girl's face was petulant and wistful. "he did not pause to say good-bye," she said, with gentlest sympathy.
"i did not ask him to."
"but, indeed, men are fashioned in that mould. i am older than you, child."
"so much is granted," said joan sharply.
"and women are fashioned in their mould, too, with feet of velvet and the hidden claws. yes, i am older. you drew blood there."
"miss bingham, i am in no mood for petty warfare of our sort. our men have done enough, and they are riding out again. we women should keep still tongues, i think, and pray for better guidance."
"how does one pray? you're country-bred and i am not." the voice was gentle, but the sideways glance had venom in it. "it comes so easily to you, no doubt—scent of hay, and church bells ringing you across the fields, and perhaps he will meet you at the stile, to share the self-same book—is that what prayer means?"
"no," said the governor, interposing bluntly. "ask lady derby what prayer means—she who has made lathom house a beacon for all time. ask ingilby's wife, who held ripley for the king's wounded—ask rupert——"
"the prince—is he, too, among the listeners to church bells?" asked miss bingham airily.
"to be precise, he is. i talked yesterday with one who was at york when rupert came to raise the siege. the prince was spent with forced marches, dead-weary, soul and body. he had earned his praise, you would have thought; but, when they cheered him like folk gone mad, he just waited till the uproar ceased, and bared his head. 'the faith that is in me did it, friends, not i,' he said, and the next moment he laughed, asking for a stoup of wine."
"he cared for his body, too, 'twould seem," murmured miss bingham.
"a soldier does, unless by birth and habit he's an incorrigible fool. i've even less acquaintance than you with prayer; but i've seen the fruits of it too often, child, to sneer at it."
"to be named child—believe me, sir, it's incense to me. miss grant here was persuading me that i was old enough to be her mother. i was prepared to kneel at the next wayside pool and search there for grey hairs."
"search in twenty years or so—time enough for that. meanwhile, we have to follow these hot-headed metcalfs, and discipline begins, miss bingham."
"oh, discipline—it is as tedious as prayer."
the governor cut short her whimsies. "the tedium begins. this is no ballroom, i would have you understand."
miss bingham sighed as their company got into order. "why are not all men of that fashion?" she asked languidly. "it is so simple to obey when one hears the whip, instead of flattery, singing round one's ears."
joan glanced at her in simple wonderment. she had no key that unlocked the tired, wayward meaning of this woman who had played many games of chess with the thing she named her heart.
the metcalfs, meanwhile, had gone forward at a heady pace. as of old, one purpose guided them, and one rough master-mind had leadership of their hot zeal. they encountered many piteous sights by the wayside—stragglers from marston, knaresborough, york—but the old squire checked his pity.
"it's forrard, lads, forrard!" he would roar from time to time, as they were tempted to halt for succour of the fallen.
his instinct guided him aright. when they came through the dust of thirsty roads and the dead heat of a thunderstorm that was brewing overhead, to the high lands overlooking norton conyers, they caught a glint below them of keen sunlight shining on keen steel.
"it's always my luck to be just in time, with little to spare," said blake, the messenger, who was riding at the squire's bridle-hand. "d'ye see them yonder?"
metcalf saw a gently-falling slope of pasture between the roundheads and themselves, with low hedges separating one field from another. "tally-ho, my lads!" he laughed. "i'll give you a lead at the fences—a yoredale sort of lead."
the parliament men checked their horses, gaped up at the sudden uproar, and had scarce braced themselves for the encounter when the metcalfs were down and into them. the weight of horseflesh, backed by speed, crashed through their bulk, lessening the odds a little. then it was hack, and counter, and thrust, till the storm broke overhead, as it had done at marston, but with a livelier fury. they did not heed it. time and again the yell of "a mecca for the king!" was met by the roar of "god and the parliament!" and squire metcalf, in a lull of the eddying battle, found the tart humour that was his help in need.
"nay, i'd leave half of it out, if i were ye, after what chanced in wilstrop wood. fight for parliament alone, and all its devilries."
that brought another swinging fight to a head; and the issue shifted constantly. the lightning danced about the men's armour. the thunder never ceased, and the rain lashed them as if every sluice-gate of the clouds were opened.
very stubborn it was, and the din of oaths and battle-cries leaped out across the thunder-roar, stifling it at times.
"the last shock, meccas!" cried the squire. "remember wilstrop wood."
in the harsh middle of the conflict, the squire aimed a blow at the foremost of the roundheads who rode at him. his pike dinted the man's body-armour, and the haft snapped in two. little blake rode forward to his aid, knowing it was useless; and, with a brutish laugh, the roundhead swung his sword up.
and then, out of the yellow murk of the sky, a friend rode down to the squire's aid—rode faster than even blake had done on the maddest of his escapades. kit, unpressed for the moment after killing his immediate adversary, saw a blue fork of flame touch the uplifted sword and run down its length. the roundhead's arm fell like a stone dropped from a great height, and lightning played about horse and rider till both seemed on fire. they dropped where they stood, and lay there; and for a moment no man stirred. it was as if god's hand was heavy on them all.
the squire was the first to recover. "d'ye need any further battle, ye robbers of the dead?" he asked.
without further parley they broke and fled. panic was among them, and many who had been honest once in the grim faith they held saw wrath and judgment in this intervention.
the metcalfs were hot for pursuit, but their leader checked them. "nay, lads. leave the devil to follow his own. for our part, we're pledged to get to norton conyers as soon as may be."
his kinsmen grumbled at the moment; but afterwards they recalled how rupert, by the same kind of pursuit, had lost marston field, and they began to understand how wise their headstrong leader was.
the sun was setting in a red mist—of rain to come—when they reached norton conyers; and an hour later the governor of knaresborough rode in with the mixed company he guarded. the men of his own garrison, the women-folk of knaresborough and ripley, odds and ends of camp followers, made up a band of royalists tattered enough for the dourest puritan's approval.
"where is li'le elizabeth?" asked michael plaintively. "for my sins, i forgot her when the squire told us we were hunting the foxes who raided wilstrop wood."
"who is elizabeth?" snapped the governor, in no good temper.
"oh, a lady to her hoof-tips, sir—loyal, debonair, a bairn in your hands when she loves you, and a devil to intruders." he turned, with the smile that brimmed out and over his irish mouth. "meccas all, the governor asks who elizabeth is. they knew in oxford, and praised her grace of bearing."
a lusty braying sounded through the lessening thunder-claps, and a roar of laughter came from michael's kinsmen.
"twins are never far apart, if they can help it," said christopher. "it is daft to worry about elizabeth, so long as michael's safe."
from long siege on land there comes to men something of the look that manners have whose business is with besieging seas. the governor's eyes were steady and far away. he seemed bewildered by the ready laughter of these folk who had ridden in the open instead of sitting behind castle walls. but even his gravity broke down when elizabeth came trotting through the press, and look about her, and found michael. she licked his hands and face. she brayed a triumph-song, its harmony known only to herself.
"one has not lived amiss, when all is said," said michael. "you will bear witness, sir, that i have captured a heart of gold."
the governor stopped to pat elizabeth, and she became an untamed fury on the sudden, for no reason that a man could guess.
"i—i am sorry, sir," michael protested.
"oh, no regrets! she is a lady to her hoof-tips, as you said, and my shins are only red-raw—not broken, as i feared."
it was well they had their spell of laughter in between what had been and what must follow. when they came to norton conyers, it was to find the mistress dull with grief, and hopeless. all she cared for lay buried, with pomp and ceremony enough, in the kirkyard below. she was scarcely roused by the news that fire and rapine would have raided the defenceless house if the riding metcalfs had not come on the stroke of need.
"i thank you, gentlemen—oh, indeed, i thank you. but nothing matters very much. he waits for me, and that is all."
she was past argument or quiet persuasion. they ate and drank their fill that night, because they needed it—and their needs were the king's just now—and on the morrow, when they had cursed their wounds, and prayed for further sleep, and got up again for whatever chanced, they found graham's widow still intractable. they told her that the safety of many women-folk was in her hands.
"i trust them to you," she said. "there's an old nurse of mine lives up in a fold of the hills yonder. they will not find me there, and i care little if they do. meanwhile, i shall get down each night and morning to pray for the soul of a gallant gentleman who has unlocked the gate"—her eyes were luminous with a temperate fire—"unlocked it a little ahead of me. he has left it on the latch."
the squire bent to her hand. "madam," he said, his roughness broken up, as honest moorland soil is broken when it is asked to rear pleasant crops—"madam, i've a wife in yoredale, i. she carries your sort of heart, i think. of your charity, pray for her till i come."
"i shall pray, sir."
and so the riding metcalfs went from norton conyers, with an added burden of women-folk, but with a sense of rosemary and starshine, as if they had tarried for a while in some wayside calvary.
