"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 irony3, 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 hood5, and encountered Christopher.
"Good morrow, Mr. Metcalf," she said, after the first start of surprise. "One of your clan6 always comes when I'm most in need of you. My husband—does he lie dead on Marston Moor7?"
"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."
"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 grooms9 were all out with the King's party yesterday."
When they crossed to the stables, a shrill10 cry of welcome greeted them; and, for all the gravity of what was past, Kit11 could not check a sudden laugh. "Why, 'tis Elizabeth, the good ass4 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 slumbers12 not long ago. And his wonder grew; for, during months of intimacy13 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 hoofs14 came up the roadway. Young dawn was busy up the hills, and into the grey and rosy15 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 bray16 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 tryst17, we two. I've been wondering, all from Marston hitherto, whether you were dead or living."
Christopher found one heartache stanched18. 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 spoke19 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 reined20 in—an easy matter with the pensioner21 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 spaciousness22 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 perils23 of the road, through the instant dangers that beset24 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 rapture25 when we charged—and now I come from Marston, and all's ended, save a thirst that will drink your cellars dry before I slake26 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 interpretation27 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 trample28 the loyal dead. Wine, Ben! Pour me a brimmer for forgetfulness."
And now Waddilove understood that this gay wastrel29 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 dread30. Not knowing what to do—whether wine were friend or adversary—he obeyed the order. Michael drained the glass in one long, satisfying gulp31. "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 lurking32 in her young, patrician33 face.
"Who is this, Ben?" she asked, withdrawing a step or two, as she saw the patched and mud-stained figure on the settle.
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 disarray35. "Does your love for the King go so deep, then? We thought you light of heart."
"Always the same gibe36. 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, thrifty37 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 cavalry38, turned again, and charged the four remaining.
He found himself in the stour of it; for they were thick-set rogues39, 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 galloped40 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 scent41 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 battered42 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 muffled43 in a great-coat, an unwieldy hat drawn44 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 peremptorily45.
"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 appalled46. 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 retrace47 her steps, the inbred courtesy of the woman surmounted48 the pain that had gone before, the passionate49 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 muddled50 and astounding51, 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 lash52 of penance53. Since this wild campaign began, drawing him from his quiet estate in Rutland, he had known no happiness till now. This woman had flouted54 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 salute55 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."
"Well, I need you, as it happens. There are many of your dead in Wilstrop Wood, and General Leslie has a soft heart—after the fight is done—like most Scotsmen. He sends me to find a King's man who can name the dead. 'They have wives and bairns, nae doot,' said Leslie in his dry way, 'and ill news is better than no news at a', for those who bide56 at hame.'"
Lady Ingilby was not sorry when her request to go with Kit was refused. After all, she had breakfasted on horrors and could take no further meal as yet.
"If he is there, Christopher," she whispered, "you will take me. If you do not find him, well. Either way, there is the God above us."
When they came to Wilstrop Wood—Lady Ingilby staying on the outskirts57 with three dour58 Scotsmen as a guard of honour—the wind was rustling59 through the trees. And from the ground there was a harsher rustle—the stir and unrest of men who could not die just yet, however they longed for the prison-gate of flesh to open.
The red-gold sunlight filtered through the cobwebs spun60 from tree to tree of Wilstrop Wood. And even Murray, who counted himself hard-bitten, stood aghast at what he saw. The underwood was white with bodies of the slain61.
A great wrath62 and pity brought Kit's temper to a sudden heat. "Captain Murray," he said, "these dead have been robbed of all that hides their nakedness. I say it is a foul63 deed. Better have lost the fight than—than this."
"Yes, if I win free of this. It shall be blazoned65 through the North, till there's none but knows of it."
Murray halted irresolute66. If the Scotsman had been of grosser make, Kit would have joined the company of King's men who slept in Wilstrop Wood. It was easy, with the men he had at call, to silence this hot-headed youngster.
"That is your resolve?" he asked slowly.
"D'ye doubt it? Captain Murray, it is a loathsome67 business enough to pick the pockets of the dead, but to take clothes and all——"
"The Scots had no hand in it, I tell ye. Our lads hae over-muckle care for the dead of either side. But I aye mistrusted those Psalm-singing rogues. Will ye take it at that?"
"There's a sickness in the middle of me," said Christopher, with tired simplicity68. "What is your business with me here in Wilstrop Wood?"
Murray conquered his first impulse to put Kit's tongue out of harm's way once for all. "As I told you, sir, General Leslie's heart is tender as a maudlin69 woman's—now the battle is won, and his own wounds patched up—and needs must that you identify the dead."
Christopher, who seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, was a true Dalesman. By letting the world see the froth and bubble of the upper waters, he hid the deeper pools. As they went through the wood, the sunlight filtering through on ground for ever to be haunted, he knew, by the whiteness of their skins, that the greater part of the fallen were gentry70 of the King's. Instinct, quick to help a man, told him it was unwise to admit the loss of so many officers to the cause, though he knew many faces there—faces of men who had shared fight or bivouac with him somewhere between this and Oxford71.
"They must rest where they lie, for all the help I can give you," he said impassively, "and may God have mercy on their souls."
"Sir, I wonder at your calm," snapped Murray; "but now I understand. All you Papists have that quiet air of ease."
"Up in Yoredale we heard nothing of the Pope, but much of prayers for those who crossed the fighting-line ahead of us."
Murray thought he made nothing of this lad; yet at heart he knew that, through all the moil and stench of Marston, he, too, was going back along the years—going back to the knees of his mother, whose prayers for him he thought forgotten long since.
As they were making their way through the wood again, a slim youngster, stark72 naked, lifted himself on an elbow and babbled73 in his weakness. "Have we won, friend?" he asked, looking at Kit and Murray with starry74, fevered eyes.
"Aye," said Murray, Scottish pity warring with regard for truth. "We've won, my laddie."
"Then unfasten this bracelet75 from my wrist. Oh, quick, you fools—the time's short! Take it to Miss Bingham, out at Knaresborough yonder, and tell her I died as well as might be. Tell her Marston Moor is won for the King."
And with that there came a rattle76 in his throat. And he crossed himself with a feeble forefinger77.
"Dear God," said Murray, "the light about his face! You simple gallants have the laugh of us when it comes to the high affair of dying."
Christopher said nothing, after closing the eyes of a gentleman the King could ill afford to lose. And so they came out of Wilstrop Wood, and found Lady Ingilby again.
"Does he lie there?" she asked sharply.
"I did not see him," answered Kit.
"I am almost—almost happy. You did not find him? Come; they'll be needing us at Ripley."
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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raffish
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| adj.名誉不好的，无赖的，卑鄙的，艳俗的 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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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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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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stanched
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| v.使（伤口）止血( stanch的过去式 )；止（血）；使不漏；使不流失 | |
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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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reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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slake
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| v.解渴，使平息 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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wastrel
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| n.浪费者；废物 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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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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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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44
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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48
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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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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50
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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51
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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52
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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53
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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54
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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56
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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57
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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58
dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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59
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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60
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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61
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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63
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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64
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
blazoned
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| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
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66
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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68
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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71
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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72
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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73
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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74
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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75
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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76
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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