“To-night the King sleeps at Sutterby on the Wolds. ‘Tis well for thee tha doost not bide wi’ his Majesty. Theer, aw’ve done thee a service.”
“What service have you done me?”
“Aw’ve told thee that tha moost sleep by Spilsby when the King sleeps at Sutterby. Fare-thee-well, maister.”
Doffing his cap once more, the stilt-walker suddenly stopped, and, turning aside, made his way with an almost incredible swiftness across the fen, taking the ditches with huge grotesque strides. Enderby looked back and watched him for a moment curiously. Suddenly the man’s words began to repeat themselves in Enderby’s head: “To-night the King sleeps at Sutterby on the Wolds. ‘Tis well for thee tha doost not bide wi’ his Majesty.” Presently a dozen vague ideas began to take form. The man had come to warn him not to join the King at Sutterby.
There was some plot against Charles! These stiltwalkers were tools in the hands of the King’s foes, who were growing more powerful every day. He would sleep to-night, not at Spilsby, but at Sutterby. He was a loyal subject; no harm that he could prevent should come to the King.
Before you come to Sutterby on the Wolds, as you travel north to the fenland, there is a combe through which the highway passes, and a stream which has on one side many rocks and boulders, and on the other a sort of hedge of trees and shrubs. It was here that the enemies of the King, that is, some stilt-walkers, with two dishonourable gentlemen who had suffered from the King’s oppressions, placed themselves to way lay his Majesty. Lord Rippingdale had published it abroad that the King’s route was towards Horncastle, but at Stickney by the fens the royal party separated, most of the company passing on to Horncastle, while Charles, Lord Rippingdale and two other cavaliers proceeded on a secret visit to a gentleman at Louth.
It was dark when the King and his company came to the combe. Lord Rippingdale suggested to his Majesty that one of the gentlemen should ride ahead to guard against surprise or ambush, but the King laughed, and said that his shire of Lincoln bred no brigands, and he rode on. He was in the coach with a gentleman beside him, and Lord Rippingdale rode upon the right. Almost as the hoofs of the leaders plunged into the stream there came the whinny of a horse from among the boulders. Alarmed, the coachman whipped up his team and Lord Rippingdale clapped his hand upon his sword.
Even as he did it two men sprang out from among the rocks, seized the horses’ heads, and a dozen others swarmed round, all masked and armed, and calling upon the King’s party to surrender, and to deliver up their valuables. One ruffian made to seize the bridle of Lord Rippingdale’s horse, but my lord’s sword severed the fellow’s hand at the wrist.
“Villain,” he shouted, “do you know whom you attack?”
For answer, shots rang out; and as the King’s gentlemen gathered close to the coach to defend him, the King himself opened the door and stepped out. As he did so a stilt struck him on the head. Its owner had aimed it at Lord Rippingdale; but as my lord’s horse plunged, it missed him, and struck the King fair upon the crown of the head. He swayed, groaned and fell back into the open door of the coach. Lord Rippingdale was at once beside him, sword drawn, and fighting gallantly.