II.
Being now considerably refreshed, and having reviewed my situation as I sat at meat, with the result that I made up my mind to attend to the business of the moment, and leave all thoughts of the future until such time as they must perforce be settled with, I arose from the table and went the round of my men, whom I found very vigilant and ready to discharge their several duties when need arose. It was then close on midnight and we had been invaded for nearly two hours, but so far, the enemy had remained quiescent, and had not so much as re-demanded our submission. He continued very peaceful, and appeared to have temporarily withdrawn his forces. When I reached the window at which I had posted Gregory, I found that the courtyard was empty, and that all was so still and peaceful, save for the sighing of a somewhat angry wind, that no one would have guessed we were withstanding a siege. But there was naught to reassure us in that.
“What are they after, think you?” says I, as I peered over Gregory’s shoulder into the darkness without. “They seem to have drawn off altogether at this present moment.”
“I warrant me they are not far away,” says he. “They put their heads together and talked awhile after Mistress French had spoken with them out of the window, and then they wheeled about and passed the gate. And it’s my firm opinion, Master Richard,” he says, “that at this moment they’re foddering their horses in our stables, though being appointed to stand here,” he says, “I can’t decide that matter for myself.”
“I’ll go round to the east side o’ the house,” says I, and set off along the corridors to the window at which I had stationed Peter and Benjamin. “Now, lads,” says I, coming up to them, “any signs of the enemy?”
“They’re in the stables, Master Richard,” says Peter. “We watched them come in at the gate from the lane an hour ago. First, there was four came together, and then three more followed after them. And they’ve turned out our horses,” says he, pointing to some dark shapes that stood disconsolate enough in the middle of the stable-yard, “and put their own beasts in the stalls.”
The door of the stable stood opposite the window at which we were watching. It was one of those doors that have two halves, and the upper one they had left open, so that we had an excellent view into the stable. They had lighted the lanthorn that hung from the roof, and I could just see the candle that swealed and sputtered in it. Now and then, one or other of Anthony’s gang passed and repassed the square of light. They were evidently making their cattle comfortable on my uncle’s provender, and the thought of it raised within me a roguish desire, such as a lad might have felt, to spoil their sport. The swinging lanthorn and its glare of yellow light gave me a thought. “Isn’t Master John Stirk a famous hand with his gun?” says I to the lads. “I have surely heard something o’ the sort in bygone times,” I says. “A rare hand, surely,” says Peter. “A’ can hit——”
But I was hurrying along the corridor towards the post at which I had stationed John and Humphrey. I passed near my uncle’s chamber on the way, and from a little distance saw Mistress Alison with her hand on the latch of the door. She bore a bowl of some sick man’s slop or other, and had no eyes for me, so I went on to find the two brothers leaning against the wall by the garden window, and gazing in silence into the gloom outside. “All’s well here,” says John, as I came up. “We heard footsteps on the path once, but ’tis a good hour ago, and they must ha’ withdrawn for awhile.”
“They are in the stables,” says I, “foddering their beasts on Sir Nicholas’s corn, no doubt. And since all’s quiet at present,” I says, “come you with me, John—I lay Humphrey will guard your post for a moment,” and I led him back to where Peter and Benjamin stood staring at the light in the stable. “You are a good marksman, they tell me,” I says. “Can you hit that lanthorn, do you think?”
“Aye,” he says, fingering his musket, “but not so well from here as from below. There’s a little window in the scullery, Master Richard, that I ha’ sometimes made use of to talk with the maids. I could hit it from that.”
“Come on,” I says, and we went downstairs. “We will give these rascals a lesson,” says I, as we turned into the scullery. “Now, John, mark the candle, and out she goes.”
He opened the little window—’twas no more than a pane of dull glass a foot square—and pushed out the barrel of his musket. On the instant the explosion followed, and the light in the stable disappeared. We heard the crash of the lanthorn as it was driven against the wall, and the sudden stamping and kicking of frightened horses.
“’Tis as dark as the grave,” says John, closing the window carefully. “Let ’em feel their way to the corn-bins,” he says, and we turned to go to our several posts again.
However, before we were at the head of the great staircase there came new developments, which rather startled me and gave a different turn to affairs. The silence of the night—which had seemed twice as deep since John Stirk discharged his piece—was suddenly broken by what appeared to be a regular fusilade, and at the same moment a loud crashing of glass and splintering of woodwork gave us notice that at last we were under fire. Close upon their noise followed a shrill scream from the corridor where we had left Peter and Benjamin.
“Somebody’s hit!” says I, and we ran along the passages. Ere we had taken many steps our feet grated on broken glass or kicked against fragments of woodwork. At the corner of the corridor leading to Sir Nicholas’s room stood Mistress Alison, holding a lamp above her head and gazing towards us with anxious looks, “No lights!” roars I. “Go back, cousin—you give them a chance to see us,” and I hurried Peter and Benjamin along the passage into an inner chamber, where we might strike a light without danger. “I’m hit somewhere,” says Peter. “I can feel the blood running.” But it was only a deep scratch that he had got in his cheek, from which the blood ran pretty freely into his neckcloth. “Off you go to Barbara for a clout,” says I, and went back with John and Benjamin to the corridor. The night air was blowing in raw and cold, for all the window was shot away. “It’s a lucky thing we wasn’t in front on’t, Master Richard,” says Benjamin. “They must ha’ fired all their pieces at it.”
There was no great harm done by this first brush, though I was somewhat regretful when I saw the wreck that I had not allowed our enemies to burn their candle unmolested. However, they made no attempt to relight the lanthorn, and as we could see naught of them in the stable-yard, I made Benjamin fetch a great mattress from the nearest sleeping chamber, and with this we blocked up the open casement as well as we could. But we had no sooner got it into place than new matters called for my attention. A door opened suddenly and we heard a scuffle of voices, first Mistress Alison’s, then Sir Nicholas’s, thin, piping, but exceeding angry. “Here’s more to do!” says I, and set off for my uncle’s room, followed by John Stirk. “This,” says I to myself, “will be harder work than fighting,” but I went boldly within the chamber. The old knight, startled, doubtless, by the firing, had got himself out of bed and now sat on the side, furious because my cousin endeavoured to persuade him to return to his pillows.
“What the murrain!” says he. “’Od’s wounds, wench, am I a child to be—’od’s death,” he says, suddenly catching sight o’ me, “nephew Dick, as I live! So we are in the hands of the rebels, Alison? Faith, I never thought to see a nephew o’ mine assault me in my own house!”
“Sir,” says I, “I am here to defend you, and I present you with my very humble duty.”
But something seemed to twitch his poor old face as I spoke, and he fell back on his bed. “Oh,” says my cousin, “leave us, sir, leave us, and send Barbara to me quick!” And so John and I bundled out of the chamber, sore bewildered.