For this reason, all Oxford awaited the coming of the Metcalfs. They in the north—men well content, not long ago, to follow field-sports and the plough—were different in breed and habits from these folk in the comely11 city. But, in the matters that touch dull workaday into a living flame, they were of the same company—men who hoped, this side or the other of the veil, to see the Standard floating high above life's pettiness. And, for this reason, Oxford waited the Metcalfs' coming with an expectancy12 that was oddly vivid. The gamesters of the Court wagered13 heavily as to the hour of their arrival. Grave dons, who happened to be interested in the mathematics more in favour at the sister University, drew maps of the route from Banbury to York, calculated the speed of messengers spurring at the gallop14 north, and the return pace of riders coming south on horses none too fresh. These had recourse to algebra15, which seemed only to entangle16 the argument the more.
Queen Henrietta Maria and the ladies of the Court made no calculations. Michael and Christopher were here, big, wind-browned men, who seemed unaware17 that they had done anything worth praise; and the Queen, with her French keenness of vision, her late-learned English view of life, knew that two gentlemen had come to Oxford, men made in the image of chivalry, ready to live or die with gallantry.
So the two brothers were spoiled outrageously19, until, on the second day, Kit20 was despatched alone to Lathom House in Lancashire.
"Take all the quieter byways," said Rupert, as he saw him get to saddle. "Tell the Lady of Latham to hold out a little longer. And tell her from me, Well done!"
Rupert sighed as he turned away. He was fretting21 to be at Shrewsbury, raising his company for the relief of York; but he was kept in Oxford here by one of those interminable intrigues22 which had hampered24 him for months past. The older men whose counsel the King trusted—Culpepper, Hyde, and the rest—were jealous of Rupert's conspicuous26 genius for warfare27. The younger men were jealous of the grace—a grace clean-cut, not foppish28, resolute29—which endeared him to the women of the Court. He was accused of treachery at Bristol, of selling his honour for a sum of gold; it was said that he dallied30 here in Oxford for reasons known to the Duchess of Richmond. No lie was too gross to put in circulation, by hint, or question, or deft31 innuendo32. Day by day, hour by hour, men were dropping poison into the King's ear and the Queen's; and at the Councils, such as this that kept him here just now, he saw across the table the faces of men obstinately33 opposed to him. Whatever he suggested was wrong because he was the spokesman; whatever was in blunt contradiction to his view of the campaign was applauded. The Duke of Richmond, his friend and ally, was with him, and one or two younger men who had no gift of speech in these times of stress. For the rest, he was alone, a man of action, with his back to the wall in a battle of tongues.
He carried himself well enough even to-day, when the meeting was more stormy than usual. His dignity was not a cloak, but an inbred strength that seemed to grow by contact with adversity.
"So, gentlemen," he said, at the close of the Council, "you have had your way so far as talk goes. Now I have mine. I hold a commission from the King to raise forces for the relief of sundry35 garrisons36. I shall relieve those garrisons in my own way. Meanwhile, you may hold Councils without number, but I would recommend tennis to you as a healthier pastime."
They watched him go. "The d—d young thoroughbred!" spluttered Culpepper. "We'll get a bit between his teeth, one of these days, and teach him discipline."
Rupert made his way across the High Street, a curious soreness at his heart. Discipline? He had learned it in his teens—the self-restraint, the gift of taking blows and giving them with equal zest37. But this new school he was passing through was harsh, unlovely. There was York, waiting for relief; there was Lathom House, defended with courage unbelievable by Lady Derby and a handful of hard-bitten men; there were twenty manors38 holding out in hope of the succouring cavalry39 who did not come; and he was kept here to attend a Council, to listen to veiled jealousy40 and derision, when all he asked for was a horse under him and grace to gather a few thousand men.
As he neared Christ Church, intent on seeking audience of the King, and stating frankly41 his own view of his enemies, he encountered Michael Metcalf crossing hurriedly from a side street.
"Well, sir?" he asked, with a sense of friendship at sight of a man so obviously free of guile42. "Have they done wagering43 in Oxford as to the hour your kinsmen44 ride in?"
"I think the play runs even faster. Some learned dons have brought the heavy guns of algebra to bear on it, and all the town is waiting for their answer to the riddle45."
"All's topsy-turvy," laughed the Prince. "If dons have taken to giving the odds46 on a horserace, where will Oxford end? But you were hurrying, and I detain you."
Michael explained that the King had commanded his presence at the Deanery; and the other, after a brief farewell, turned on his heel. After all, his own business with the King could wait until this reigning47 favourite in Oxford had had his audience.
Just across the way was Merton, where the Queen's lodging48 was. Rupert had had his fill of disillusion49 and captivity50 here in the loyal city; he was human, and could not hide for ever his heartache to be out and doing, lest it ate inward with corrosion51. He crossed to Merton, asked for the Queen, and was told that she had gone out a half-hour since to take the air. The Duchess of Richmond was within, he learned in answer to a second query52.
The Duchess was stooping over a table when he was announced. She added a few quick strokes to the work she was engaged on, then rose.
"You, my Prince?" she said, with frank welcome. "You come from the Council? I hoped that you would come. Were they as always?"
"My lord Cottington's gout was at its worst, and he in the same mood as the disease. Digby's mouth was more like a Cupid's bow than ever, and he simpered well-groomed impertinences. How I loathe53 them, Duchess."
"You would."
She turned for a moment to the window, looked out on the May sunlight and the dancing leaves. All the vigour54 of their loyalty55 to the King—her husband's and her own—all the dreams they had shared of monarchy56 secure again, and rebellion trampled57 underfoot, were summed up in Rupert's person. He had done so much already; he was resolute to go forward with the doing, if the curs of scandal and low intrigue23 would cease snapping at his heels.
She turned from the window. "My Prince," she said, touching58 his arm with the grace that gives courage to a man, "you do well to come here for sanctuary59 between the pauses of the battle. If you knew what my husband says of you, if you guessed the many prayers I send you——"
The keen, happy smile broke through from boyhood's days. "Duchess," he said very simply, "I am well rewarded. What were you busy about when I intruded60?"
She showed him her handiwork. "One must do something these dull days," she explained, "and it was you who taught me this new art of etching. Am I an apt pupil?"
Rupert looked at the work with some astonishment61. The art was in its infancy62, and difficult; yet she had done very well, a few crudities apart. The etching showed a kingfisher, triumphant63 on a rock set in midstream; at its feet lay a half-eaten grayling.
"It is not good art, because it is an allegory," she explained, with the laughter that had been oftener heard before the troubled days arrived. "You, my Prince, are the kingfisher, and the grayling the dull-witted fish named Parliament."
At the Deanery Michael was in audience with the King, whose imagination had been taken captive by the exploits of the Riding Metcalfs, by the stir and wonderment there was about the city touching the exact hour of their coming. Michael, because wind and hazard in the open had bred him, carried himself with dignity, with a reverence64 rather hinted at than shown, with flashes of humour that peeped through the high gravity of this audience. He explained the wagering there was that York would be relieved, spoke34 of the magic Rupert's name had in the north. At the end of the half-hour the King's face was younger by ten years. The distrust of his nephew, wearing faith away as dropping water wears a rock, was gone. Here, by God's grace, was a gentleman who had no lies at command, no private grudge65 to serve. It was sure, when Michael took his farewell, that the commission to raise forces for the relief of York would not be cancelled.
The King called him back, bade him wait until he had penned a letter. The letter—written with the sense that his good angel was looking over his shoulder, as Charles felt always when his heart was free—was a simple message to his wife. He had not seen her for a day, and was desolate66. He could not spare time to cross the little grove5 between this Merton, because he had letters still unanswered but hoped to sup there later in the day. He was a fine lover, whether of Church, or State, or the wife who was lavender and heartsease to him; and, after all, they are three kingly qualities.
He sealed the letter. "You will be so good as to deliver it into the Queen's hand, Mr. Metcalf; there may be an answer you will bring."
Michael, when he knocked at the gate of Merton, was told the Queen was abroad. He said that he would wait for her return; and, when the janitor67 was disposed to question, he added that he came direct from the King, and, if he doubted it, he would pitch him neck and crop into the street. He was admitted; for the janitor, though sturdy, was six inches shorter.
When he came into the room—that would have been gloomy between its panelled walls, if it had not been for the sunlight flooding it with gold and amber—he saw Rupert and the Duchess of Richmond standing2 near the window. Sharp, like an east wind from Knaresborough, where he had marked time by dalliance with pretty women, he heard Miss Bingham's voice as she bade him, when he came to Oxford, ask Rupert how the Duchess of Richmond fared.
Michael did not need to ask. With a clean heart and a conscience as easy as is permitted to most men, he saw these two as they were—loyal woman helping68 loyal man to bind69 the wounds that inaction and the rust25 of jealousy had cankered.
"By your leave," he said, "I have a letter for the Queen."
"It will be safe in my hands, Mr. Metcalf."
The Prince was surprised by the other's gravity, his air of perplexity. "I would trust all I have to you," said Michael, "all that is my own. But this letter is the King's, and he bade me give it to the Queen herself. I can do no less, believe me."
"Sir," said Rupert coldly, "you risk your whole advantage here at Court—make me your enemy for life, perhaps—because you stand on a punctilio the King himself would not ask from you."
The Duchess watched the faces of these men. Michael had been the laughter-maker in the midst of disastrous70 days; his gift of story, his odd susceptibility to the influence of twenty pairs of bright eyes in a day, had made him a prime favourite. Now he was as hard and simple-minded as his brother Christopher. She approved the man in his new guise71.
"I stand on the strict command the King gave me," said Michael quietly. "Sir, how could a man do otherwise?"
Rupert turned suddenly. "Duchess," he said, "we stand in the presence of a man. I have tried him. And it always clears the air, after Councils and what not, to hear the north wind sing. I wish your clan72 would hurry to the muster73, sir, if they're all as firm as you are for the King."
An hour later the Queen returned, read the letter, penned a hasty answer. "Ah, it is so good to see you, Monsieur Metcalf, so good! You have the laughter ready always—it is so good to laugh! There is—what you call it?—too much salt in tears, and tears, they fall so quick if one allows it. Now, you will tell me—before you take my letter—when does your big company ride in? Some say to-day, others two, three days later. For myself, I want to see your tall men come. They will make light the King's heart—and he so triste—ah, croyez-vous that he is triste!"
With her quick play of hands and features, her pretty broken English, the air of strength and constancy that underlay74 her charm, the Queen touched Michael with that fire of pity, admiration75, selfless love, which never afterwards can be forgotten. She had bidden him laugh, lest for her part she cried. So he made a jest of this ride of the Metcalfs south. He drew pictures, quick, ludicrous pictures, of men calculating this queer game of six-score men travelling fast as horseflesh could bring them to the loyal city. He explained that he alone had the answer to the riddle, because he was unhampered by Christopher's obstinacy76 on the one hand, by the grave algebra of dons on the other. All Oxford had been obsessed77 by the furious gallop of horsemen north between stage and stage. They could reach York in fifteen hours. It was the return journey, of units gathering78 into companies, of companies resting their horses when need compelled, that fixed79 the coming of the White Horses into Oxford. And the last of these—the one mustered80 nearest York—was of necessity the one that guided the hour of coming.
In the north ride, speed and road-dust under the gallop; in the canny81 muster toward the south, a pace of tiresome82 slowness.
"How long since we came in, Christopher and I?" asked Michael.
"Six days," said Rupert. "They's been leaden days for me, and so I counted them."
"Then look for our folk to-morrow, somewhere between dawn and sunset."
On the northern road, beyond Banbury, there had been a steady muster of the Metcalfs day by day. Blake, the night-rider, watched the incoming of these northern men—each day a score of them, big on their white horses—with wonder and a keen delight. Those already mustered were so sure of the next day's company; and these, when they rode in, carried the same air of buoyancy, of man-like hardihood and child-like trust.
A new, big dream was stirring round Blake's heart. Six days ago he had lain awake and heard two sentries83 talk of Miss Bingham, of the coquetry she practised still in Knaresborough, and his old wound had opened. He had staunched the bleeding with prompt skill; and now his heart was aching, not for fripperies over and done with, but for the thing that Oxford was to see, if all went well. He had ridden out to spur the first Metcalf forward with his message to the north. He would bring this gallant18 company into the city—he, small of body, used only to the plaudits of barn-owls and farmhouse84 dogs as he galloped85 over hill and dale on lonely errands—he would come into the full sunlight of Oxford's High Street with the stalwarts he had gathered in.
There's no stimulus86 so fine as a dream nurtured87 in good soil. Blake went foraging88 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 Squire89 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," chuckled90 the Squire, "because they could not, sir. I am used to asking for obedience91. 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 vex92 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 sentry93 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 steadfastness94 that had brought them south, the zeal95 that was like wine in their veins96, 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 repented97 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 plentiful98 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!"
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1
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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wagered
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| v.在（某物）上赌钱，打赌( wager的过去式和过去分词 )；保证，担保 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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entangle
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| vt.缠住，套住；卷入，连累 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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garrisons
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| 守备部队，卫戍部队( garrison的名词复数 ) | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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manors
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| n.庄园（manor的复数形式） | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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wagering
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| v.在（某物）上赌钱，打赌( wager的现在分词 )；保证，担保 | |
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kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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46
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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50
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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corrosion
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| n.腐蚀，侵蚀；渐渐毁坏，渐衰 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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63
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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68
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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underlay
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的过去式 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起n.衬垫物 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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84
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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85
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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foraging
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| v.搜寻（食物），尤指动物觅（食）( forage的现在分词 )；（尤指用手）搜寻（东西） | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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96
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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