II.
I was in some expectation during the rest of the night that a reinforcement of the besiegers might after all take place, and that we should be severely assaulted under cover of the darkness. The hours went by, however, without anything of this sort happening, and as it wore towards early morning I made up my mind that the night was to be utterly peaceful. We had kept such observation as we could upon the enemy, and it was my firm conviction that some of them at least had escaped from the stable during the night and withdrawn to more comfortable quarters. But since we had no assurance that an assault might not be made upon us at any moment, I kept the men to their posts, and myself patrolled the house ceaselessly, only pausing now and then to call at my uncle’s chamber-door and enquire for his health. About three o’clock in the morning as I stood at the head of the great staircase resting myself a brief moment, old Barbara came out of the kitchen and called my name softly. “What is it?” says I, going down to her in the darkness, which we preserved strictly, lest the besiegers should have any profit of our lamps and candles. “Is there aught afoot, Barbara?”
She beckoned me within the kitchen. “Master Dick,” says she, pointing to the door that stood open ’twixt us and the scullery, “there is the curiousest tapping noise on the little window by the horse trough. Tap-tap-tap, tap, tap, it goes,” she says. “I ha’ listened to it this ten minutes. It must be a sign, Master Dick,” she says fearfully. “To be sure, the blind in your poor uncle’s chamber fell this afternoon, but signs may come more than one at a time, eh, Master Dick? Hark you—why, ’tis there again.”
I stepped lightly towards the scullery door and heard the sound she spoke of. “Sign or no sign,” says I, “I’ll see what it is, Barbara,” and I stepped within. But the thought occurring to me that this might signify some message from Merciful Wiggleskirk I turned and closed the door. “Best not let in any light from the kitchen,” says I, “lest the enemy see it.” So I left Barbara there and went to the little window alone. After a time the tapping came again. Whereupon, keeping under cover of the wall, I put out my finger and tapped lightly in response. An answering knock coming from without, I undid the bolt and spoke. “Who’s there?” says I. But lest it should be some trick of the enemy I kept closely behind the wall, for I had no mind to show my face at the window and receive a bullet in eyes or mouth.
However, as I had conjectured, it was Merciful Wiggleskirk that stood without “’Tis I, master,” says he, “and I have tapped and tapped this half-hour. I do naught by halves,” he says, “and I could not ha’ rested until I had told you how I sped with my mission.”
“I am beholden to you,” says I. “You delivered the despatch in safety?”
“It is in the hands of Fairfax himself, master,” says he. “Great news or small, he knoweth every jot and tittle on’t.”
“That’s well,” says I, much relieved. “I thank you, Master Wiggleskirk.”
“Why,” says he, “I need naught of that sort, master, for you paid me excellent well. But I am new come from the camp, and since you are one of us——”
“What does that mean?” I says.
“I heard that you were of the true political creed,” says he. “Faith, how could you be aught else, seeing that you carried a despatch from Cromwell?”
“I perceive your meaning,” says I. “Go on, pray.”
“Why,” he says, dropping his voice to a whisper, “as you are one of us I thought it well to tell you that ere sunrise there will be a troop here to reduce this place to submission. I was accompanied to camp,” he says, “by Master Dacre, who seems to have ingratiated himself with Colonel Sands, and now you are to be closely invested and reduced. And, hark ye, Master Coope,” he says, “if I were you I would——”
What more he would have said was lost to me, for at that moment Anthony Dacre’s voice called across the fold. “What the murrain, Wiggleskirk! does it take an hour to water thy beast?” says he, and we heard his steps on the frosted straw as he came towards us. I shut the window and the trooper moved away. I caught sight of his figure and of Anthony Dacre’s outlined against the darkness beyond, and for a moment was tempted to see whether a bullet from my pistol could not pick out the right man. But on second thoughts I refrained, and went back to the kitchen and thence to the upper storey to resume my patrol, encourage my men, make enquiry after Sir Nicholas, and wait for daybreak.
Now, when daybreak came there was ample proof that Merciful Wiggleskirk’s recent statement had been based on truth. The house was surrounded by troopers, who rode hither and thither as if to take observation of their position. There was an officer with them who plainly assumed command—as for Anthony Dacre I saw naught of him nor of his gang. I went round the posts which I had already established and exhorted my men to be brave and vigilant. The lads Peter and Benjamin were somewhat concerned because of the array now set before them, and so instead of leaving them together I made Peter exchange places with Humphrey Stirk, thinking that one tried man and a lad together was better than two untried lads. Gregory and Jasper I found unconcerned and ready—they had more faith in our defences, I think, than I had.
Having assured myself that all was in order for the struggle which I now saw we must quickly engage in, I went to Sir Nicholas’s chamber to see how he did. He was by that time sinking fast, having undergone a great change at cockcrow. Alison and Barbara were in close attendance upon him, and as there was naught that needed my immediate attention outside I prepared to stay with them for a little while. But then came John Stirk knocking at the door and asking if I were within. I joined him in the corridor on the instant. “The officer,” says he, pointing to the window overlooking the garden. “He is without there, flying a flag, and demanding to speak with you, Master Coope.”
“Did he ask for me by name?” says I, mightily surprised. “He must have meant Sir Nicholas.”
“He said Master Richard Coope,” says John. “There’s a fine lot of ’em without,” he says, as we went towards the garden window, and, faith, he was right there, as I saw when I looked out. Whether it was that he wished to make a brave show and frighten us into resistance, I cannot say, but he had drawn up all his men in the garden, where their horses’ feet made sad havoc with my uncle’s trim lawns. The officer himself sat his horse a little in advance of the rest, and when I appeared at the window was giving some order to a man who stood at his side bearing a white flag.
I opened the window and leaned out. “You have asked for Richard Coope, sir,” says I, looking down at the officer. “What is it that you wish with me?”
“You are Master Richard Coope?” says he, looking at me with some curiosity.
“The same,” says I.
“I would like to hold parley with you, Master Coope,” says he. “I am Captain Holdsworth, and am charged with your arrest, and with that of Sir Nicholas Coope and his niece, Mistress Alison French. Do you purpose to submit yourselves to me?” says he, as polite as if he asked me whether I preferred white bread to brown. “Or shall we be under the necessity of using force?” he says, first cocking his eye at the brave show of thirty odd troopers behind him, and then glancing at me with an arch expression.
“Why, sir,” says I, “I fear you will be under the necessity you speak of, for we have no mind to submit ourselves to you. Why should we?” I says, giving him back a smile as gracious as his own.
“This is Fairfax’s own hand,” says he, producing a paper, and pointing to some writing in the corner.
“I am so far away from it that I do not recognise it, sir,” says I.
He put the paper within his doublet. “Can we not talk matters over, Master Coope?” says he.
“With all the pleasure in the world, sir,” says I. “That is,” I says, “if you love to discuss matters in so public a fashion.”
He looked round him. “But I don’t,” he says. “Come, Master Coope, we are gentlemen and can trust each other. I will dismiss my men to a distance and you shall come down and talk with me—or I will enter the house and talk with you. I am quite indifferent,” he says.
“Why, sir,” says I, “’tis, I assure you, no easy matter for me to leave the house or for you to enter it. But if you will dismiss your forces, or give me your word of honour that you will not suffer them to molest or hinder me, I will come into the garden and talk with you right willingly.”
“I will do both, Master Coope,” says he. And therewith he turned and dismissed his men, bidding them retire into the meadow that lay beyond the garden. “You have safe conduct out and in,” he says, looking at me. “I await your coming with eagerness, Master Coope.”
As I passed my uncle’s door Alison came out of his room and laid a hand on my arm. “Barbara tells me you are going to hold parley with the enemy,” she says. “You will have no dealings with him in the way of surrender?” she says, looking at me very hard.
“Surrender?” says I, smiling. “Come, cousin, what do you take me for?”
“I have better thoughts of you than that,” says she. She turned and looked at the door that separated us from Sir Nicholas. “He is near the end,” she says sadly. “Let him die a free man, Richard, even if the old house is tumbling about his death-bed.”
“Give me your hand on it, cousin,” says I, strangely moved. She put her hand in mine and looked into my eyes. “I trust you,” she says, and withdrew her hand, and went back into Sir Nicholas’s chamber.
I called John Stirk to me as I ran down the stairs, and with his aid I moved sufficient of the barricade that secured the window in the herb-room to enable me to get out. “Wait there with your musket until my safe return, John,” says I, and hurried round the corner of the house into the flower-garden. The officer waited me there, leaning against his horse. “So we are to talk, sir,” says I, coming up to him.
“And I am glad of the chance, Master Coope,” says he, frankly. “This is a strange business, and to tell you the truth, though I must and shall do my duty as a soldier. I am loth to be mixed up in it.”
“Sir,” says I, “I am utterly at a loss to understand you.”
“Are you so?” says he. “Look you, Master Coope, how would you explain such things as these? Three days ago, Fairfax issues his warrant for the attachment of Sir Nicholas, your uncle, who has been mighty active of late in vexing and annoying the Parliamentarian forces now investing Pomfret Castle. In order that the thing may be done with as little violence as possible to the old knight’s feelings, he entrusts the warrant to your kinsman, Master Dacre, who on coming to the house, finds it already prepared to withstand a siege. Now within twenty-four hours of his sitting down before it——”
“Or skulking in the stable,” says I, “but I interrupt you, sir,” I says. “Pray proceed.”
“Within twenty-four hours of its investment,” he says, “you secretly hand a most important despatch to one of his troopers, bidding him——”
“Bribing him,” says I.
“Why, of course,” says he, laughing, “but at any rate, he was to carry it to Fairfax. And so he does, and it proves to be a despatch from Cromwell, of great moment. And so, naturally, Fairfax wants to know how you, the bearer, came to be in the house of a Royalist when you should have been making all speed to him with the despatch—and since he wants to know, he will know, and that, Master Coope,” he says, “is why I’m here.”
“Sir,” says I, “if I tell you the exact facts of the case, will you make Fairfax immediately acquainted with them? For I can assure you they are somewhat different to the representations made to him by that fox, Anthony Dacre,” I says, looking hard at him.
“I will indeed fulfill your wish,” he says. “Faith, I thought there must be some other aspect of the case.”
“You shall see the true one,” I says, and I told him of all that had chanced since I came to the top of the road at Barnsdale. He listened attentively. “And a much more likely story than t’other!” says he, when I had finished. “I will repeat it to a trusty messenger and send him on to Fairfax at once. But, Master Coope,” says he, “why not submit yourselves and go with me to Fairfax? Tell him your tale with your own lips,” he says.
“Why, sir,” says I, “personally, I have no objection to going before Fairfax. But within the house, my uncle lies dying, and my cousin is at his bedside, and neither will yield to you except by force. And while they’re there,” says I, “there I shall stay.”
“Then our negotiations must fall through,” says he, regretfully. “Is there no chance, Master Coope—for look you, I must do my duty—Fairfax and Sands are stern men, and I am jealously watched.”
“Sir,” I says, “there is no help for it—we must each do our duty in our own fashion. Your bullets,” I says, with a glance at the old walls, “will find something to resist them.”
“Well,” says he, “’tis a pity, Master Coope, but—at least let us shake hands ere we fight,” he says, and held out his own.
“With all the pleasure in the world,” says I.
“We shall meet again, I think,” he says—and so I left him and hastened to rejoin John Stirk and make good the window.