Chapter Six.
How I walked with a Rebel.
“Where do we go next?” asked I in the morning as we shook ourselves free of the hay which had been our bed, and sallied out into the air.
He looked at me with a smile, as though the question were a jest.
“To my guardian’s,” said he.
“Why!” said I, “he will flog you for running away from Oxford.”
“What of that?” said Sir Ludar. “He is my governor.”
It seemed odd to me for a man to put himself thus in the lion’s maw, but I durst not question my new chief.
“You shall come too, and see him,” said he. “It passes me to guess what he will do with me next, unless he make a lawyer or a priest of me.”
“I must back to my master in London,” said I.
“The printer!” said he, scornfully. “He is thy master no more; thou hast entered my service.”
This staggered me. For much as I loved him, it had never occurred to me to bind myself to a penniless runaway.
“Pardon me, sir,” said I. “I am bound to the printer by an oath. Besides, I know not yet what your service is.”
“My service,” said he, “is to be free, and to put wrong right.”
“’Tis a noble service,” said I, “but it fills no stomachs.”
“You ’prentices are all stomach,” said he, sadly. “But ’tis always so. No man that ever I met believed in me yet. I must fight my battles alone.”
This cut me to the quick.
“Not so,” said I. “Last night I swore to be your friend. It was a mad oath, I know; but you shall see if I do not observe it. But till two years are past, I am bound by an oath to my master the printer, and him I must serve. Then, I am with you.”
This I thought softened him.
“Well,” said he, “who knows where we may be two years hence?”
“God knows, and we are in his hands.”
“So be it,” said Sir Ludar, crossing himself, to my grief. “Meanwhile, Humphrey, we are friends. I may claim your heart if not your hand?”
“You may—or,” here I blushed, “a share of it.”
“What mean you by that?” asked he, sharply. “What man holds the rest?”
“No man,” said I.
He laughed pleasantly at that.
“A woman? I have heard of that distemper before. It comes and goes, I’m told. Had it been a man, I should have been jealous.”
There was little sympathy in that for my sore heart, so I said no more.
“Come,” said he presently, “you shall come to my guardian’s. He lives at Richmond, and it is on our way to London. If he turn me off, you shall take me to London, and make a printer of me, if you please.”
I agreed to this, and we stepped out on our journey.
A strange journey it was. My comrade, for the most part, stalked silently half a pace in front of me, sometimes, it seemed to me, heedless of my presence, and sometimes as if troubled by it. Yet often enough he brightened up, and began carolling some wild song; or else darted off the road after a hare or other game which he rarely failed to bring down with his arrow; or else rallied me for my silence, and bade me talk to him.
At these times I asked him about his own country, and his father, and then his face lit up. For though he had not seen either since he was a child, it was clear he longed to be back.
“What prevents your returning now?” said I.
He looked at me in his strange wondering way.
“Know you not that McDonnell is an exile, and that the hated Sassenach holds his castle?” demanded he.
I confessed I did not; for a London ’prentice hears little of the news outside. Besides, though I durst not tell him as much, I did not know who McDonnell, his father, might be; or what he meant by Sassenach.
“But he will feast in Dunluce once more,” cried he, “and I shall be there too. And the usurper woman Elizabeth shall—”
Here I sprang at him, and felled him to the ground!
The blood left my heart as I saw what I had done. As he lay there, I could hardly believe it was I who had done it; for I loved him as my own brother, and never more so than when he leapt to his feet, and with white lips and heaving chest stood and faced me.
I was so sure he would fly at me, that I did not even wait for him to begin, but flung myself blindly on him. But he only caught me by the arm and shoulder, and flung me off with such strength that I reeled and staggered for a dozen yards before I finally fell headlong with my face in the dust.
Then he turned on his heel and walked on slowly.
It was no light thing, after that, to pick myself up and, spitting the dust from my mouth, go after him. But I did. He never turned as I came up behind, or heeded me till I stood before him and said:
“Sir Ludar, I smote you just now for speaking ill of my Queen. A man who is disloyal to her is no friend of mine; therefore farewell.”
He glanced me over, and his face had lost all its anger.
“She is no Queen of mine,” said he. “I was born her enemy. For all that, you did well to strike when I spoke ill of her. I would do as much to you were you to speak evil of my Queen.” And here he raised his cap.
“Your Queen?” said I. “And who may she be? There is but one Queen in these realms.”
“I know it,” said he. “Her I serve.”
“Do you mean,” said I, “that you serve—”
“Hush!” said he, with his hand at his belt. “I serve Queen Mary, and all the saints in Heaven preserve her! Now, Humphrey Dexter, is it peace or war?”
“I pray every day for the confusion of her Majesty’s enemies.”
“Why not?” said he, “so you pray not aloud. I do the same.”
“Not so,” said I, “or I should not have struck you. Nor shall it be peace if you dare to breathe her Majesty’s name again in my hearing.”
“Heaven is my witness I have no wish to breathe it,” said he, with a curl of his lips. “Nor, if you breathe the name of mine, need you look for so gentle a tumble as I dealt you just now. Come, your hand on it.”
So we struck hands for the third time and went on.
My conscience troubled me sore the rest of that day. What had I come to, to assort thus with a declared enemy of our gracious Queen, and, more than that, to love him more every mile we walked? I could not help it, as I said before. He was so unlike a common rebel, and so big in his heart to every one and everything that claimed his aid.
Once that day, as we toiled along the hot road, we overtook a poor woman carrying a bundle in one arm, while with the other she strove to help along a little, footsore child, who whimpered and stumbled at every step. Without a word, Sir Ludar took the child and bundle both from the scared mother, who gave herself up for lost, until he asked her gently whither she went, and might he help her so far with her burdens? Then she wept, and led us a clean four miles off our road to her cottage, where Sir Ludar put down the bundle and the now sleeping urchin and bade her adieu before she could thank him.
Another time, as we were mounting a hill, we came up with a hay-cart which the patient horse could scarcely drag. Whereupon he set-to to push the cart behind, calling on me and the bewildered carter to do the same, till we had fairly hoisted it to the crown of the hill.
Another time he fell foul of a parcel of gipsies who were ill-using an old man of their tribe, and a lively fight we had of it, we two against six of them, amongst whom was the old man himself. When at last we had got rid of them I hoped that our adventures for the day were done, for I was tired and wanted to rest my bones in a bed.
But as we passed through Reading the righteous soul of my comrade was vexed by the sight of a boy sitting howling in the stocks.
“No doubt he deserves punishment,” said I.
“Deserve or not, he has had enough, for me,” said Ludar, and began kicking away at the boards.
Of course there was a commotion at that, and the constable came to see what the noise was about. Ludar desired nothing better, for he made the fellow disgorge his key, which saved a vast power of kicking. Then, when the boy was free and had darted off to the woods. Sir Ludar, with a grim smile, locked up the beadle in his place, and flung the key into the pond. Then as the watch and a posse of the townsfolk turned out to see what the uproar was, we ran for it and got clear.
This last proceeding did not please me. For it was defying the Queen’s law, and as I said to my comrade, it was not for us to set ourselves up against authority.
But Sir Ludar would listen to no reason.
“The lad was miserable where he was,” said he.
“So is the beadle now,” said I.
“The better the lesson for him,” said Ludar.
There was no use arguing, so we trudged on some miles further till night fell, and we took shelter again in a barn.
The next day, guiding ourselves chiefly by the river, we came to Windsor, where I had much ado to hinder my comrade from going a-hunting in her Majesty’s forest. Had it not been that I persuaded him we might almost reach Richmond that night, I think, for mere spite of the law, he would have stayed.
As it fell out, we were far from reaching Richmond that night. For the way was difficult with swamps and thickets, so that we were glad enough to reach Chertsey by sundown. I was for spending what little remained of my money at the inn, but this he would not hear of; so we took our supper, and then, as the night was fine, slept in a field of hay. Sweet lying it was too, and when early next day we plunged into the clear river and refreshed out travel-stained limbs, we felt men again.
It was well on in the afternoon when we arrived at Richmond. We should have been there sooner, but that my comrade was for ever calling a halt or turning aside on some errand of chivalry. Mad enough I thought some of them, but then he never asked me what I thought; and if ever I hung back, he did what he needed without me. Yet whatever he did, it was to help some one weaker than himself, and if my patience now and then failed me, the honour I had for him grew, as I said, with every mile we went.
I say it was afternoon when we reached Richmond. As we approached the place my comrade’s desire to see his guardian waxed cool, and he cast about him for an excuse, if not to avoid going to the house, at least to put it off till night. I proposed that we should rest ourselves under the trees in the park, to which he agreed. But it was an unlucky move. For we had not lain half an hour, enjoying the shade, and I half asleep, when he started up with a “hist,” and slipped an arrow into his bow.
At that moment a fine buck went by. He had not spied us while we lay still, but the moment my comrade moved, he threw up his head and bounded off. Yet not before a quick twang from Sir Ludar’s bowstring had sent an arrow into his quarter. “Are you mad?” cried I, in terror, “it is the Queen’s deer!”
“Follow! follow!” shouted Sir Ludar, who was every inch a sportsman.
I tried to hold him back, but he heeded me no more than had I been a fly. With a loud whoop, he dashed away in pursuit. He had not gone twenty yards from me, when there was a great shout and clatter of horsemen, and before I well knew what had happened, I saw Sir Ludar disarmed in the clutches of half a dozen men. I rushed to his help, but could do nothing except share his fate. For they were too many for us, and we had no time even to hit out.
“Where is the captain?” cried one of the men.
Just then up rode a man at sight of whom the blood tingled in all my veins. I mean Captain Merriman.
I do not know if he recognised me at first, for he scarcely gave us a look.
“Away with them to your master,” said he, riding on, “and see they give you not the slip.”
So we were marched off, a pretty end to our jaunt. And to make our plight worse, Sir Ludar whispered to me as we went along, “Unless I mistake, the master of these men is my guardian, Sir William Carleton.”
Sure enough it was.
The house we were conducted to stood in a large park with a view far over the river, perhaps the fairest view in England. Yet I had no mind just then to admire it; for the presence of that hated horseman made me forget all except one fair face, which I seemed to see as I had seen it that day at Finsbury Fields. He rode forward as we entered the park and bade the men bring us safely in.
“Come, step out,” said one of the men, giving me a flick with his riding-whip, “we have been waiting for you these three weeks, my gentlemen; and I promise you a warm welcome from his worship. The captain, his visitor, will be in high favour, now that he has run the vermin to earth—what say you, Hugh?”
“I warrant you that,” said Hugh. “For our master had set his heart on catching the vagabonds, and nothing could please him better.”
“Heigho! It is we have had all the watching these weeks past; but this gay spark will have all the glory now. Well, so the world goes. I shall be glad to see him started on his Irish wars, for I like him not.”
“Nor I—and yet we are not like to see the last of him soon, if the rumour which my lady’s maid hath whispered me, that some fair company is expected shortly at the hall, be true.”
The other laughed.
“No, truly, he is no proof against the flutter of a skirt, as some here know. Did I tell you what befel him not long since in London town, at the place where the ’prentice boys’ sport? I had it from one of his own men. But here we are at his worship’s. You shall hear the story another time, and I warrant you will crack your sides over it.”
Sir William, being an old man and gouty to boot, saw his prisoners in his own room, whither we were accordingly conducted. I had no chance to get a word with my comrade, who, I noticed, kept his hand to his mouth, and pulled his cap over his eyes—I suppose, to conceal himself from those about the place who might know him. As for me, I had no desire to hide myself from the only man there who knew me.
Sir William was a fine, red-faced, white-headed old gentleman, with something of the old soldier in his air, and (when he came to speak), a good deal of him in his words. He sat in a great chair, with one foot swaddled on a stool before him; and the oaths with which he greeted each twinge as it came, boded ill for us his prisoners.
He kept us waiting a long time at the dimly lit end of the hall, while he spoke to his guest. At last he ordered us to be led forward. As we advanced, and their eyes fell on us, each uttered an exclamation. I kept my eye on Captain Merriman, and watched the storm that gathered on his brow, and the crimson flush that sprung to his cheeks. It was plain he knew me again, and I was content.
As for Sir Ludar, he stared listlessly at his guardian till it should please his worship to speak.
His worship began with a string of oaths.
“Why, what means this, sirrah! How came you here, you vagabond Irish whelp, in this company? Speak, or by my beard, I’ll—I’ll—”
He did not say what he would do, for his foot gave him a twinge which demanded of him every word he could spare.
“I have left Oxford, Sir Guardian,” said Ludar, “I liked not the place, or the ways of the place, or the Welshman, my keeper; and as for my present company,” said he, turning to me, “’tis good enough for me. It was I shot the deer, not he; and so pray bid these fellows loose him.”
At this the angry old soldier nearly went off in a fit. He flourished his stick towards the offender, and even tried to rise from his chair, a proceeding which brought on fresh pangs, and set him swearing hard for a minute or more.
“How now! what, a murrain on you, puppy! Am I to be told my duty by a raw-boned, ill-conditioned Irish gallowglass that I have fed at my table and spent half my life in making a gentleman of? What do you think of that, Sir Captain? How would you like to be saddled with a young wolf-hound cub like that—Sorley Boy’s son he is, no other, on my life—that I was fool enough to take wardship of when he was a puling puppy and his father an honest man? What do you think of that? Curse the whole tribe of them, say I.”
“By your leave, Sir William,” said the captain in a smooth soft voice, that made every hair on my body bristle, “good deeds have always their reward; but as for the deer that was shot, your ward is generous enough to shield the real offender at his own cost. I should be sorry indeed had it been otherwise.”
I could see the veins in my comrade’s neck swell while this talk went on. But he remained silent, while Sir William said:
“By my soul, it wants but to look at the varlet to see poacher written in his face! And the Queen’s deer too! Come, you men, which of you was it caught the rogue?”
Here one of the men, seeing how the wind lay, swore before heaven that he saw me shoot the deer, and took me red-handed, with my bow in my hand. And when one sheep leads the way, the others follow. They all swore it was I; while some added that my comrade lay asleep under a tree, and knew nothing of the matter till I was captured.
Then Sir William grunted, and turned to his ward.
“’Tis well for you, sir puppy, these honest fellows give you the lie. Had they done otherwise, I could have believed them; and I promise you, ward and all as you are, I would have hanged thee for slaying the Queen’s deer, as surely as I will hang this cunning rogue here. Let the boy go, men; and now you,” said he, turning to me, “you ill-looking hang-dog, you, say your prayers, for to-morrow you ride to the Assizes, and then the Lord have mercy on thy black soul!”
It surprised me that Sir Ludar took his release quietly, and now stood by with thunderous face, but apparently heedless of my sentence.
“Take him away there,” said his worship, “and make him fast in the cellar. These dogs are slippery vermin, so take care. When the rope is round his neck he may wriggle to his heart’s content. Come, be off with him.”
I looked at Ludar, but his back was turned. I looked at Captain Merriman, and he was smiling to himself. I looked at his worship, and he was swearing at his foot. So as all seemed against me, I turned sadly enough and followed my guard to the dungeon. I cared little enough what came to me. Ever since I set foot out of London things had gone against me. I was steeped breast-high in disloyalty and lawlessness; I had staked my peace of mind on a rebel, and now it seemed even he had done with me. Yet I could not believe that. Had I done so, I think I should have beaten out my brains upon the wall of that damp cellar. As it was, I sat there, too bewildered to think. And so, for lack of anything else to do, I fell asleep.
I know not how long I had slept, when I was aroused by a hand on my arm. As I might have known, it was Ludar. He had a dish of venison pasty and a flagon of wine in his hands, which he set before me, and in dumb show bade me eat. I obeyed heartily, for I had not tasted food since the morning. Then he took me by the hand, and led me in the darkness up the steps and into the open air. Once clear of the house he broke silence.
“Farewell,” said he, “I may stay here. My guardian threatens to send me back to Oxford in charge of a troop, but I think I shall stay here a while.”
“But,” said I, “will you not get yourself into trouble over this?”
“Over what? your release?” said he, laughing, “I think not. The old gentleman will rave somewhat at first, but when it comes to hanging me or nobody, he will hold his peace. He cannot afford to see a ward of his swing with his feet off the ground. Moreover, as soon as I can hear news from the north, I shall go to find my father. So, farewell, Humphrey. Expect me in London ere long, and forget not our oath.”
I gave him my hand in answer, and with a heavy heart started on my way.
I had not gone many paces when he came after me.
“Who and what sort of man is this Captain?” said he.
“He is the Devil,” said I. And I told him what had passed between us. He laughed loud when I spoke of the duck-pond—so loud that I feared we should be heard.
“Oh,” said he, when the tale was done, “that settles it.”
“Settles what?” I asked.
“I mean,” said he, “that I think I shall slay him.”
And with that we parted, he back to the house, I, dismally enough, to London.