They went through the pleasant dale. In Wensley village they met a waggon coming home with corn, ingathered for the threshing. All down the valley men were reaping in the fields. The land yielded its produce, and folk were gathering it as if no blight of civil war had fallen about the land. This, too, disturbed Joan Grant. She had pictured her journey to Ripley as one long road of peril—a battle to every mile, and danger's swift excitement scudding on before her.
"There's no war at all, Pansy," she said fretfully, watching mile after tranquil mile go by. "They gather in their corn, and the peace is undisturbed."
"We should be thankful for the mercy," said the maid austerely.
"Oh, we should, girl, but we're not. Undoubtedly we are not thankful."
At Skipton, the day before, there had been battle enough, as the Riding Metcalfs knew. When the fight was ended, and they had spiked the guns lying wide across the highway of the Raikes, they gathered for the forward ride. A hundred-and-twenty of them had ridden out, and not one was missing from their number, though half of them were carrying wounds.
Old Metcalf—"Mecca," as his kinsfolk had the name—rounded up his company. "The Governor tells me, lads, that a company of Fairfax's men are coming through. We've to go wide of Skipton and ambush them."
Battle sat finely on the man. He had no doubts, no waywardness. He was here for the King, to take orders from those placed above him, and to enforce them so far as his own command went.
"A Mecca for the King!" roared Christopher, the six-foot baby of the flock.
The cry was to sing like a northern gale through the Yorkshire highlands; and now the running uproar of it drifted up the Raikes as they came to the track that led right-handed down to Embsay village. Down the pasture-lands they went, and through the small, grey township, and forward on the road to Bolton Abbey. Half between Bolton and Long Addingham they met a yeoman jogging forward at a tranquil trot.
"Why, Squire Metcalf, it's a twelve-month and a day since we set eyes on each other," he said, reining up. "Are you riding for Otley market?"