"it's a pity about that corn o' mine, all the same," said the squire, with a last backward thought. "there never was such a harvest year, since back into the 'twenties."
"there'll be such a harvest year, i trust," laughed blake, "as will bring more like you to the king. i would that every dale of the north gave us a company like yours—men and horses riding as if they'd been reared together from the cradle. i tell you sir, prince rupert would enrol you all at sight, if there were not more urgent need for you at skipton."
"as a plain man to a plain man, what does the king ask of us?" asked the squire of nappa. "mr. lambert, you say, is laying siege to skipton. he should know better. i knew him as a lad, when he lived out yonder at calton-in-craven, and he had naught in common with these thick-headed rogues who are out against the king. he's of the gentry, and always will be."
"he has lost his way in the dark, then," said the other drily. "he's training his cannon on skipton castle as if he liked the enterprise."
"so you want us to ride through lambert's men and into the castle to help garrison it?" asked squire metcalf, with his big simplicity, his assurance that the men he led would charge through any weight of odds.
"heaven save us, no! the governor has enough men to feed already, men of usual size; your little company would eat up his larder in a week."
"we have fairish appetites," the squire admitted. "big sacks need a lot of filling, as the saying goes. still, you said the king wanted us, and we've left a fine harvest to rot where it stands."
the messenger captured a happiness he had not known for many days. there were no shams about this squire. in all sincerity he believed that king charles had personal and urgent need of him; he asked simply what it was the king commanded. it was so remote, this honesty, from the intrigues of those who fought for places in the court, and named it loyalty, that the messenger was daunted for a moment.
"you are a big company, sir," he said, turning briskly round in saddle; "but you seem oddly undivided in loyalty to the king and one another. strike one metcalf, or do him a kindness, and six-score men will repay in kind. you have the gipsy creed, my friends."
"ay, we're close and trusty. it seems you know the way of us nappa folk, though i never set eyes on you till yesterday."
"it is my business to know men. the king's riders must make no mistakes these days, squire." he glanced back along the chattering group of horse, with quick pride in the recruits he had won from yoredale. "you're all well horsed, well armed."
"why, yes. we heard trouble was brewing up 'twixt king and parliament, and we got our arms in order. what else? folk sharpen sickles when the corn is ripening."
"and you have these lusty rascals at command—sharp to the word?"
squire metcalf smiled, a big, capacious smile. "they've felt the weight o' my hand lang syne, and know it. my father before me trained me that way—as you train a dog, no more, no less."
he drew rein and whistled sharply. the horsemen, fifty yards behind, pressed forward, and the heir of nappa galloped at their head, drew rein, saluted his father with sharp precision, and waited for commands.
"oh, naught at all, christopher," said the squire. "this guest of ours doubted whether i could whistle my lads to heel, and now he knows i can."
the messenger said nothing. the quiet, hard-bitten humour of these northerners appealed to him; and mallory, the governor of skipton, had been right when he sent him out to nappa, sure that the metcalf clan would be worth many times their actual number to the royalists in yorkshire.
they came to the rise of the road where bishopdale, with its hedges of fast-ripening hazel nuts, strode up into the harsher lands that overlooked wharfedale. they rode down the crumbly steep of road, past cray hamlet, set high above its racing stream; and at buckden, half a league lower down, they encountered a hunting-party come out to slay the deer. they were too busy to join either party, king's or parliament's, and offered a cheery bidding to the metcalf men to join them in the chase.
"we're after bigger deer," laughed the squire of nappa. "who rides for the king?"
hats were lifted, and a great cheer went up. "all of us," said a grey, weather-beaten horseman.
"ay, it seems like it," growled the squire. "much good you're doing skipton-in-craven by hunting deer instead of roundheads."
"skipton can stand a twelve months' siege. she can whistle when she needs us, like any other likely lass. there's no need to lose a hunting-day till sir john mallory needs us."
the squire found his first disillusionment along this road of glamour. he had thought that a company of picked horsemen, armed for the king and riding with a single purpose, would have swept these huntsmen into line. some few of them, indeed, had ridden forward a little, as if they liked his message; but the grey-headed horseman, who distrusted all enthusiasm because long since he had lost his faith in life, brought them sharply back.
"it will be all over in a week or two, and the crop-heads back in their kennels. no need to lose a hunting day, my lads."
the white horses, carrying big men, trotted forward, through starboton and kettlewell, where the danes had raided, wooed, and settled long before a stuart came to reign over gentler times. it was not till they reached linton, quiet and grey about its clear, trout-haunted stream, that the squire of nappa broke silence.
"i told those hunting gentry that the king needed them, and they wouldn't hearken. it seems royalists are deaf these days to the plain road of honesty."
"they are," said the messenger, with the surprising calm that he had learned from lonely errands, ridden oftener by night than daytime. "so are most men and most women. my heart's singing by that token. i'm bringing in six-score metcalfs to the king, all as honest as god's sunlight. my luck is in, squire."
the squire would have none of blandishment. he could ride a good horse or a grievance hard. "they doffed their hats when i named the king," he growled.
"they did, but not their heart-coverings. if they'd been keen to ride—why, they'd have ridden, and no child's game of deer slaying would have stopped them. skipton is better off without such laggard arms to help her."
"but the king needs them," said metcalf stubbornly, "and we showed them the plain road."
they rode on through cracoe, where the trees were red-gold in their pride of autumn, and again the squire of nappa broke the silence. "what does the king ask of us? if it is not to garrison the town——"
"it is a pleasanter occupation. the governor would change places with you willingly, squire. he told me so when mapping out the work for you men of nappa. you're well horsed and drilled. you are too strong to be attacked except in force, and they can spare few men from the assault. your business is to patrol the open country, to intercept and harry lambert's reinforcements—to come like the wind out of nowhere, and vanish as suddenly, till the roundheads learn that skipton is attacking and besieged, both at the same time."
"there's one big load off my mind," said metcalf soberly. "we shall have the sky over our heads and room for a gallop. i was in mortal fear of being shut up in skipton castle, i own, day in, day out, and never a wind from the pastures. we were not bred for indoors, we nappa folk, and i doubt a month of it would have killed us outright."
the squire did not understand the fine breadth of strategy that underlay this plan mapped out for him. but the messenger was well aware of it, for sir john mallory had a soldier's instinct for the detail of campaign, and he had explained this venture yesterday with what had seemed a mixture of sagacity and sheer, unpractical romance. since spending the night at nappa, and journeying with the metcalfs for half a day, blake realised the governor's sagacity more fully. as for romance—that, too, was vivid enough, but entirely practical. six-score men on big white horses were enough to feed the most exacting poet's fancy; they were sufficient, too, to disturb the thick-headed, workaday routine of lambert's soldiery.
they came to rylstone, fair and modest as a maid, who hides from men's intrusions. rylstone, the village beyond praise, bordered by grey houses and the call of ancient peace—rylstone, that dalesmen dream of when their strength has left them for a while and their hearts are tender.
"she's bonnie," said the squire of nappa, checking his horse from old instinct.
"yes, she's bonnie," blake agreed. "rylstone bred me, and a man should know the debt he owes his mother."
then it was forward up the hill again. blake was thinking of life's surprises—was picturing the long impatience of his manhood, because he stood only five-foot-six to his height in a country that reared tall men. since then he had learned to pit strength of soul against body height, and now he was bringing in the finest troop of cavalry that ever rode the dales. he was content.
as they drew near to the house known as none-go-by, blake was full of the enterprise planned out for these jolly metcalf men. he did not propose to take them into skipton, but left-handed into the bridle-track that led to embsay. there was news that a company of fairfax's men was coming round that way from otley, to help the roundhead siege; and he would have fought a battle worth the while—for a small man, not too strong of body—if he ambushed the dour rogues with his cavalry brought out from nappa.
yet his well-laid plan was interrupted. all the quiet ways of the countryside had been thrown into surprising muddle and disorder by this civil war that had come to range friends of yesterday on opposite sides of the quarrel.
it should have been market-day, and the road full of sheep and cattle, sleepy drovers, yeomen trotting on sleek horses. instead, there was silence, and the nappa folk had all the highway to themselves until they neared the rutty track that joined their own from thorlby and the gargrave country.
a stream of horsemen was pouring down this track—parliament men riding from the west to help lambert with the siege. they rode slowly, and the nappa men, as they drew rein and looked down the hill, counted two hundred of them. then came three lumbering waggons, each with a cannon lashed to it by hay-ropes plaited fourfold, and each drawn by a team of plough-horses that roused squire metcalf's envy. behind the waggons, more horsemen rode at a foot-pace, till it seemed the stream would never end.
"mr. lambert is needing more artillery, it seems," said blake drily. "his anxiety must be great, if three cannon need such a heavy escort."
the squire of nappa did not hear him. for a moment he sat quietly in saddle, his face the mirror of many crowded thoughts. then suddenly he raised a shout—one that was to sound often through the yorkshire uplands, like the cock grouse's note.
"a mecca for the king!" he roared, lifting the pike that was as light as a hazel wand to his great strength of arm.
blake was at his right hand as they charged. he had only his sword, but the speed and fury of the battle made him forget that not long since he had longed for the strength to wield a pike instead, as all the men of nappa did.
it was all confusion, speed of white horses galloping down-hill to the shock, thud of the onset. the roundhead guard had faced about to meet this swirling, quick assault. they saw a company of giants, carrying pikes as long as their own bodies, and they met them with the stolid roundhead obstinacy. it was a grim fight, and ever across it rang the squire of nappa's lusty voice.
between the two companies of roundhead horsemen were the three farm-waggons carrying the guns. those on the skipton side were trying to ride uphill to help their comrades; but the din of combat had sent the plough-horses wild. they were big and wilful brutes, and their screams rose high above the babel of men fighting for their lives. then they bolted, swerved across the road, and brought themselves and all they carried into the ditches on either side. the cannon, as they fell, ripped the waggons into splintered wreckage.
between the fallen horses, through the litter of broken waggons, the men of nappa drove what had been the rearguard of the convoy. they picked their way through the fifty yards of broken ground, lifted their white horses to the next attack, and charged the second company of roundheads. those of the shattered rearguard who could not draw aside were driven down pell-mell into their upcoming friends, bringing confusion with them. and through it all there rang the squire's voice, with its keen, insistent cry of "a mecca for the king!" in that hour the parliament men learned that the stuart, too, had downright servants at command, who were not made up of dalliance and lovelocks.
the men of nappa would not be denied. they asked no quarter and gave none; and they drove the roundheads—who contested every step with stubborn pluck—down the hill and up the gentle rise past skipton church, and into the broad high street that was the comeliest in yorkshire. the castle, with its motto of "désormais" carved in stone against the blue autumn sky, looked down on this sudden uproar in the street; men's faces showed above the battlements, eager with question and surprise.
the tumult reached lambert's ears, too, as he stood beside the cannon on cock hill. knowing that reinforcements were coming over the lancashire border, he thought the garrison had made a sortie; and he gave a sharp command to fire on the castle as fast as they could load their clumsy cannon, to bring the sortie party back to the defence. the roundhead luck was out altogether, for the first cannon-ball flew high above the carved motto of "désormais," and the second, falling short, killed three of the horsemen who were retreating, step by step, before the nappa men.
sir john mallory, the governor, was one of the men who looked down from the battlements. he had a zealous heart, and his thirty years of life had taught him that it was good to live or die for the king. below he saw a swarm of giants striding white horses; saw the little messenger he had sent to nappa fighting as merrily as any metcalf of them all; saw the roundheads retreating stubbornly. as he watched, a cannon-ball whistled by, a foot or two above his head, and ruffled his hair in passing as a sharp wind might do.
"my thanks, lambert," he said impassively. "one needs a breeze after long confinement."
then he went down the slippery stair; and a little later the drawbridge rattled down, and he rode out with twenty others who were sick from lack of exercise.
it was a stubborn business. the roundheads left behind with the overturned guns, up the rylstone road, recaptured the courage that no man doubted, and came driving in at the rear of this pitched battle. lambert himself, the increasing tumult coming up to him through the still, autumn air, got thirty of the besiegers together. they had ridden in at dawn, and their horses were picketed close at hand. as they galloped up the high street, they were met by the weight of their own retreating friends from lancashire; and it was now that lambert showed the leadership, the power of glamouring his men, which none among the roundheads had since hampden died.
"friends," he said,—the quaker instinct in him suggesting that odd form of address when battle was in progress—"friends, i trust you."
just that. he had found the one word that is magical to strong men. they answered him with a rousing shout, and drove up against the king's men. for a moment even the nappa riders gave back; but the recoil seemed only to help them to a fiercer onset. they had both cavalier speed and roundhead weight, these metcalf men and horses; and sir john mallory, fighting beside them for mastery of the high street, was aware that yoredale had given the king a finer troop of horse than even rupert could command.
across the thick of it mallory caught lambert's glance, and an odd smile played about their lips. the same thought came to both between the hurry of the fight. not long ago they had dined together, had talked of the winter's hunting soon to come, had smoked their pipes in amity. now each was thanking god that the shifting issues of the battle did not bring them sword to sword; for civil war is always a disastrous and a muddling enterprise.
the glance, and the memories that went to its making, were over in a second. it was a forward plunge again of king's men meeting roundheads, hard to drive. and suddenly there rose a cry keen as winter in the uplands and strong as sun at midsummer.
"now, metcalfs," roared the squire of nappa, "into the standing corn—and god for the king, say i!"
into the standing corn they went, and it was open flight now down the length of skipton street. time after time lambert strove to rally his men, using oaths that had not been taught him by the quakers, but the retreat swept him down, carrying him with it. a great gentleman, whichever side he took in this fierce quarrel, was learning for the first time the sickness of defeat.
the nappa men were only turned from pursuing the enemy into the teeth of the guns on cock hill by mallory, who rode forward sharply, reined about and fronted them.
"gentlemen of yoredale," he said, quiet and persuasive, "the king does not command you to be blown to bits up yonder. he has other need of you."
"i like to sickle the whole field once i make a start," said squire metcalf.
"ay, but there's a biggish field in front of you. you'll need to sleep between-whiles, squire."
when they turned to ride up the high street again, the squire, among all this muddle of wounded metcalfs, and horses that were white and crimson now, saw only a little man slipping from the saddle of a little mare. he rode up in time to ease his fall, and afterwards felt the man's wounds gently, as a woman might. and the tears were in his eyes.
"it's blake, the messenger, and god knows i'm sorry. he fought like the biggest rogue that ever was breeked at nappa."
"his soul's too big for his strength," said mallory, with his unalterable common sense. "he'll just have to lie by for a while."
"there's naught much amiss, save loss o' blood, may be. we'll get him to the castle gate, and then—why we'll just ride up the raikes and spike those cannon lying in the ditch."
"you're thorough, you men of nappa," said mallory, with a sudden laugh.
"men have to be, these days," the squire answered soberly. "if a body rides for the king—well, he rides for the king, and no two ways about it."
kit drew apart from the turmoil, and searched for the kerchief joan grant had dropped in front of his horse, away in yoredale yonder. it was white no longer, but reddened by a wound that he had taken. and quietly, in the stillness that comes after battle, he knew that he was to follow a long road and a hard road till he was home again. it was better—in his heart he knew it—than dallying at country stiles, sick with calf-love for a maid too high above him.
"you look happy, lad," said the squire, as he drew rein beside him.
"i'm climbing a tree, sir, a big tree. there's somebody's heart at the top of it."
"ay, miss joan's," growled squire metcalf. "well, go on climbing, lad. you might have chosen worse."
