III.
Having fairly recovered my senses I looked round me and found that we were in the midst of a score or so of troopers, apparently under command of a middle-aged officer who seemed fierce enough to eat hot lead. This worthy, turning from Anthony Dacre, with whom he had been conversing, presently approached me and enquired if I were now in a condition to travel.
“Aye,” says I, “but not a-foot, sir.”
“You shall have a mount, Master Coope,” says he, and beckons a trooper to bring up a horse, upon which I clambered with some pain and difficulty. “We must make what haste we can,” says he, “for Fairfax is somewhat impatient to meet you.”
He gave me a curious, knowing look as he turned from me to Alison.
“As for you, madam,” he says, “I fancy that some arrangement has been made for you by your kinsman, Master Dacre; you are free, at any rate, so far as I am concerned.”
“If Mistress Alison will accept my poor protection as far as her father’s house—” says Anthony, coming forward. But half-a-dozen paces away he stopped, frightened, I think, by the look she gave him.
“Liar!” she said, and looked him up and down ere she turned away. She came up to me and laid her hand on my arm, “I am going with you,” she says in a low voice. “I am afraid—that man frightens me. What is it they will do to you, Richard?”
“Shoot me, I expect, cousin,” says I. There was naught to be gained by keeping the truth from her.
She went over to the officer. “Sir,” says she, “you will make me your debtor if you will carry me to Pomfret with you. I have a mind to go there,” she says, looking hard at him.
The man looked from her to Anthony. “Why, madam,” says he, “sure you are free to do what you please, and I should feel it an honour to give you any assistance, but——”
“You are to go with me to your father’s, cousin,” says Anthony, with a frown on his black face. “It was on these conditions only that I secured your liberty.”
But she paid no more heed to him than if he had been a stone. She still looked at the officer. “Then you will take me with you, sir?” she says.
“Faith, and so I will, mistress,” says he, “if you can make shift to ride on one of my men’s saddles.”
“You are wrong, Captain Stott,” says Anthony Dacre, “I agreed with Sands——”
“Look you, Master Dacre,” says the other, “the young woman is free, and I know naught of your arrangements with Sands or anybody else. And since she asks me for a lift into Pomfret,” he says, “why, she shall have it, and there’s an end.”
This matter being settled, much to Anthony Dacre’s chagrin and the further souring of his naughty temper, we presently set out for Pomfret, going thither by way of Darrington Mill and Carleton village, in passing through which the folk came out of their houses to stare at us. It gave me much pain to ride, and Captain Stott urged us forward at a brisk pace. But going up Swan Hill we came to a gentle walk and Stott brought his horse alongside mine and inquired after my condition.
“Why, sir,” says I, “I suffer somewhat smartly, I promise you, and this jolting does naught to help me.”
“Well,” says he, “you will have a speedy quittance of your pain, young gentleman, for as I am an honest man I believe Fairfax will shoot you.”
“I expect naught else,” says I.
“You’re mighty cool about it,” says he, “and I admire you for that. Lord! what is there that’s better than war for taking the sentiment out of a man? I am sure you’ll face a file of my troopers very brave,” he says, looking narrowly at me. “’Twill be but justice, young gentleman, for your offence was exceeding grave.”
“Sir,” says I, “you seem to know a deal more of my offence than I know myself. To tell you the truth,” says I, “I am in that state of mind which prevents me from caring whether I offend or not.”
“Oh, tired of life,” says he.
“On the contrary,” says I. “I want very much to live, and am cursing my fate as earnestly as I can. And yet,” I says, giving him a smile that was doubtless as grim as his own, “I am wise enough to know that all the cursing in the world won’t alter things.”
“You will certainly be shot,” says he.
“Well, sir,” I says, “then I will be shot. But if you would oblige a dying man—and you seem assured that I am one—say naught of it to my cousin there,” says I, pointing to Alison, who rode a little in advance, and out of earshot. “She has some inkling of it already, but you have such a cold-blooded style of saying things,” says I, “that she’ll look upon you as a butcher.”
“Why, ’tis my trade, lad,” says he, and laughs. “But I’ll respect your wish, seeing that it’s one of the last you’ll ever utter.”
We were now come to Pomfret, and for some moments I forgot my own affairs in looking about me and noting the evidences of warfare which were on every side. As we drew nearer to the marketplace I saw many houses that had been shattered by the Castle artillery and now stood in ruins. Beyond the Moot Hill we passed the Main Guard, which they had erected at the top of Northgate, and out of which came several Parliamentarians to see us pass, and inquire of their fellows as to our business. Captain Stott, however, hurried us forward along Skinner Lane, and so we presently came to Fairfax’s camp, which was at the rear of a great horn-work that they had thrown up for the beleaguering of the Castle. We were now in full view of the Castle itself, and occasionally noted the discharge of its cannon which chiefly played, however, against the fort on Baghill, from whence most annoyance was caused to the besieged. Fairfax and Sands were closeted together in a farmhouse close by the camp, and thither Captain Stott conducted us and bade his men help me down from my horse. I was making shift to hobble along, leaning on the arm of a trooper, when Sands himself suddenly came out of the house and met us. He looked from me to Alison and seemed resentful of her presence.
“What do you do here, mistress?” says he, rudely. “I cannot remember that we sent you for any woman, Captain Stott,” he says. “That matter, I think, was arranged with Master Dacre there.”
“She came of her own accord,” says Stott. “She was free to go where she pleased for aught that I know to the contrary.”
“What is your business here, mistress?” says Sands. But ere she could reply he fell into a sudden fury. “Come!” says he, “get you gone, mistress, get you gone!—what, have we not had enough of trouble with you Coopes this last day or two that you must give us more? See her out of the camp, Master Dacre,” he says, turning upon Anthony. “See her to her father’s house as you arranged with me.” He turned from them and looked at me with a severe displeasure in his eyes. “Richard Coope, eh?” says he. “Bring him within—we are anxious to make acquaintance with you, Master Coope.”
“Sir,” says I, as I hobbled into the farmhouse after him, “I claim your protection on behalf of my cousin, Mistress French, without there.”
“She hath another cousin to protect her,” says he, ill-temperedly. “We have given her safe-conduct to her father’s house, and there’s an end on’t.”
“But——” says I.
“I’ll hear no more,” says he, savage as a bear, and he walked forward and into a room, the door of which he closed behind him. The three troopers that had me in charge waited in the passage with me in their midst. I looked from one to the other, and recognising Merciful Wiggleskirk amongst them, I begged him to run outside and see whether Alison had departed, and if not, to entreat her from me to seek out some friend in the town rather than trust herself to Anthony Dacre. This he did, but presently returned, saying that Mistress French had ridden away, and Master Dacre and his two men with her, whereat I turned sick at heart, and cared no more as to what might happen to me.
After some little time the door of the chamber into which Sands had withdrawn was opened again, and an officer looked out and bade the troopers bring me within. I hobbled into the room and found myself standing at the foot of a great table, at the head of which sat a man whom I immediately took to be Sir Thomas Fairfax himself. Sands sat by him on his right, and two other officers were placed on his left, while Captain Stott stood half-way along the table. They all gazed at me with some curiosity, and faith, I daresay I was a pretty sight to behold, for I had had no time to smarten myself up for four days, and the mud of the ditch was thick on my clothes. However, I made my best bow, and was then forced to clutch and hold by the table lest I should fall, for the pain in my leg was turning me sick again.
“Master Richard Coope,” says Fairfax, looking at me.
“The same, sir,” says I.
“You seem to be in some distress,” says he, not unkindly.
“Sir,” I says, “I have hurt my foot, and the pain is exceeding sore at this moment.”
“Give Master Coope a chair,” says he.
“I thank you, sir,” says I, very polite. “Faith!” thinks I, “he is surely going to shoot me, or he would not be so attentive.” And I sat down and tried not to groan at the agony which every movement gave me.
“Now, Master Coope,” says he, “we have had you brought here after much trouble and annoyance to question you of your late doings.”
He paused and looked at me.
“Sir,” I says, regarding him steadily, “I am prepared to answer any question you are pleased to put to me.”
“Are you so?” says he. “Be assured, Master Coope, that we shall deal justly with you. And since we are sitting in court-martial upon you, you shall know what it is that you are charged with.” He took up a paper from the table. “You are charged,” he says, looking at it, “with a grave offence, namely, that you, being duly entrusted with the conveyance of a despatch from General Cromwell to me, Sir Thomas Fairfax, did desert your commission, and, attaching yourself to the enemies of the Parliament, did do, and cause to be done, many things hurtful to the cause which you had sworn to further. What say you to that, Master Coope?” he says, regarding me keenly.
“Sir,” says I, “if you will listen to my defence I shall hope to make myself clear to you.”
“You shall have all the consideration that is right,” says he. “So tell us your story, Master Coope, without fear.”
“I am a poor hand at it,” says I, “but this is a plain tale and the truth,” and I pulled my wits together and put the matter plainly before them. I told them how I had lost my horse, how I had chanced to overhear Anthony Dacre’s plot, how I had gone to the Manor House to warn my uncle, and had been trapped there ere I could leave, and how I had contrived to forward the despatch by Merciful Wiggleskirk. “And that,” says I, coming to an end, “is the truth of this matter, wherein, if I have done wrong, it has been for the sake of folk that were dear to me. And, gentlemen,” says I, looking from one to the other, “if there were need I would do it again—and I have no more to say.”
After I had finished none of them spoke for awhile, but at last Fairfax looked at Sands. “I wish,” says he, “that we knew more about this man Dacre and the plot which his kinsman Coope alleges against him.” But Sands shook his head. “’Tis neither here nor there, Sir Thomas,” says he. “What have we to do with plots about carrying off a young woman? Here is Richard Coope confessing, yea, and glorifying himself because of it, that he deserted his commission, and joined himself to his uncle in resisting our warrant. A clearer case,” says he, “I never heard.”
Then the four of them withdrew into another apartment, leaving me there with Stott and the troopers. “Thy foot will not pain thee much longer, young man!” says Stott. “Faith,” says I, conceiving a great dislike to him all of a sudden, “’tis well for you, sir, that I am unable to use it!” And there might have been a pretty row between us but that Sir Thomas and the others came back and took their seats. I glanced at Sands, and knew what was coming.
Fairfax looked at me with some kindness as he began to speak. But there was naught kind about his words. I had deserted my commission, and thereby caused great annoyance to the Parliament; I had joined myself with the Royalists, and had brought about the death of a useful officer, and it was impossible that my serious offence could be overlooked. And so I was to be shot at daybreak of the following morning.
I think I got to my feet and bowed to him when he made an end. And I must have winced with the pain that every movement gave me, for he looked at me with some consideration. “I am sorry that you suffer,” says he. “I will send my surgeon to see to your hurt.” “I am greatly your debtor, sir,” says I. And so we parted with much politeness on both sides, and the troopers helped me out, and presently installed me in a neighbouring cottage, with Merciful Wiggleskirk as a guard, and my own thoughts for amusement.
| Chapter VIII | Of my Surprising Deliverance from Death, my last Meeting with Anthony Dacre, and of certain Notable Passages ’twixt Mistress Alison and Myself. |