“Did you ever hear the ballad of ‘Johnny Armstrong’?” Hugh asked. “Dick used to sing it. There was a man sought the king for pardon and he got little good by it.”
All the same her assurances made him more confident in himself, so he slept that night untroubled and woke ready for whatever the day might bring. Perhaps it was the widow’s continued encouragements, perhaps it was the good breakfast he made, or perhaps the sight of the sun struggling through the watery clouds, that served still farther to put him in high spirits. Be as that may, he took a gay farewell of Widow Flemyng and of Nancy, and cantered out by the pasture lane at a hopeful pace, as if he were eager to cover the distance to Oxford and whatever waited him there.
The rain of the preceding day had laid the dust well, and left in the air a lingering fragrance of moist earth and beaten grasses that made it a temptation to slacken speed along the country road. In the hedges by the wayside the honeysuckle was still dripping with wet; Hugh pulled a tuft of blossoms as he passed, and crushed them slowly in his bare hand. How sweet and good was life in summer time, he reflected, and then he flung the blossoms away and, whistling persistently, thought no more, for his mind was all made up.
At the first tavern he came to he bought him a draught of ale, bravely, now there was money in his pocket, then trotted on without halt till past noon. By that the sun had burnt away the clouds, and the still heat made the journey less pleasant; so, coming upon a sleepy village with a small neat inn, the “Bear and Ragged Staff,” Hugh thought well to rest the midday hours and get food for himself and his horse. The fear of being recognized and apprehended before he should have a chance to give himself up made him call for a private room, where he ate alone, except that the host bustled in to serve him and retail a variety of gossip. Oxford was near enough for the daily news to pass to the village, so Hugh heard a deal of authentic information of how the king was said to lean now to the counsels of the hot-heads and to the army, and how the royal troops might any day set forth to take in Bristol. He scarcely heeded more, for the talk of Oxford had turned his thoughts again to what was before him. Where should he eat his next meal, he wondered, with a remembrance of the grim Castle; and then, impatient at his own faltering, he jumped up hastily, and, paying his reckoning, went down to the little court of the inn, where he bade them saddle Bayard at once.
The horse had been led out into the shade of an open shed, and Hugh was lingering by the stirrup to fee the hostler, when outside the gateway sounded a great clattering of hoofs, and a gentleman came spurring in upon a white horse, that stumbled on three legs. “Have me hither a fresh mount, briskly, you knaves!” he shouted, flinging a handful of loose coin among the stable-boys and loiterers. Then, as he put eyes on Bayard, he swung himself from his saddle. “This beast will serve my turn,” he called to the host, who had just showed himself at the door of the inn.
“By the Lord, this beast will not serve your turn!” Hugh cried hotly, and, catching hold on Bayard’s bridle, flung himself before the horse in time to confront the stranger. “This is no post-horse, sir, but mine own.”
The other turned sharp away with a shrug of the shoulders; they were broad shoulders, Hugh noted, and the rough gray coat fitted them ill. “Put saddle to another horse at once,” the man bade.
“There is no other at hand, your Honor,” the host apologized, as he ventured out into the court. “All are at the smith’s. Belike in a half-hour, your Worship—”
“Enough,” the other interrupted him, and strode back to Hugh. “What will you sell this beast for?” he asked curtly.
“Not again for all the gold in England,” Hugh replied, tightening his grasp on the bridle.