they crossed the moor, and so, through long marston, made forward on the york road till they reached a hamlet three miles from the city. here they captured a shepherd, known to the country speech as "an old, ancient man," who was driving a flock of ewes from a neighbouring pasture. they asked him if he knew anything of the to-and-froing of the parliament troops.
"i've seen a moil o' horsemen scummering out to york for three days past. but they asked me no questions, and so i asked them none. reckoned they were riding to a hunt. gentlefolk must fill up their time, one way or another."
"but, man," snapped old metcalf, "d'ye live so close to york and not know there's war between king and parliament?"
"nay. i've been tending sheep. have they fallen out, like, king and parliament? well, let 'em fratch, say i. i'm a simple man myself, with ewes to tend."
squire metcalf broke into that big laugh of his that seemed to set the world to rights. "forward, mecca lads!" he said. "we've ewes to tend ourselves; but, bless you, this shepherd brings a wind from yoredale to us."
a half-mile further on they met a company of fairfax's horse, foraging for meat and drink. there were fifty of them, and the metcalfs went through them like a sickle cutting through the bearded corn. ten were killed, and they let all but one of the retreating forty go. from him, before they freed him, they learned that it was unwise to venture further than a mile on the york road, unless they wished to try conclusions with outposts of the scots at micklegate.
"one of us must find a way into york castle," said the squire, calling a council of war about him.
it was part of the man's downrightness, his faith that providence was kind to every stark adventure, that he was able to make the forlorn hope seem a deed already done.
"i claim the venture, sir," said michael, with his unalterable smoothness and the air of one who jests. "kit, here, has had his share already."
"well, well, 'twill keep you out of mischief for a while. get you from saddle, michael. steal into york as privily as may be, and ask my lord newcastle what service six-score metcalfs can do him in the open. we shall be waiting for you, here or hereabouts, when you return."
michael, as he trudged along the road, overtook a tall fellow who walked beside a donkey-cart piled high with vegetables. "i'll buy that donkey, friend," he said, "and all your cart holds, and the clothes you stand up in."
"for how much?" asked the countryman, stolidly indifferent to all except the call of money.
michael took a guinea from his pocket, and watched cupidity brighten in the rascal's eyes as another coin was added. then they went aside into a little wood beside the road, exchanged clothes there, and the bargain was complete.
"clothes make a difference," chuckled the countryman. "here's thee, looking as gaumless a lad as ever brought produce into camp; and here's me, the gentleman fro' my head to my riding-boots. all i need is to steal a horse; then i shall be the gentleman quite. i knew the feel o' stirrups once, before i drank away a snug little farm and had to take to the road."
something in the man's voice, something in his sturdy height, the devil-may-care acceptance of life as it was, roused michael's interest. "you sell your wares to the roundhead army?" he asked sharply.
"ay, but that doesn't say i hold wi' them. i've my living to earn, and sell in any market."
"have a care, man. you're for the king, i fancy, apart from trade. and how do you know that i'll not take you by the ear and lead you into camp for a traitor to the commonwealth?"
the rogue looked up and down the road. "there's none to come in between us," he laughed. "i care never a stiver on which side you be. i'm for the king, and always was; and, if you say nay, we can fight it out here with our fists. we're much of a height and girth."
this was the sort of wayfaring that tickled michael's humour. "my lad," he said, between one break of laughter and the next, "it would be a pity for two king's men to fight. go back a mile along the road to ripley, and find a company of rascals as big as you and me. when they ask your errand, say 'a mecca for the king,' then tell them that i've sent you with the news that all speeds well."
"this is fair dealing?" said the countryman, after a puzzled silence.
"take it or leave it. we metcalfs never trust by halves."
the other clapped his hand suddenly into michael's. "that's a bargain," he said. "i'd liefer join your company than sell cabbages to these durned cropheads."
the donkey was waiting patiently in the road until they had settled their differences. when the new master put a hand on the bridle and urged her forward, the brute lashed out a hind leg and scarred his leg from knee to heel.
"ah, there, be gentle!" laughed the rogue who was wearing michael's clothes. "my name's driver—will driver, at your service—and i allus said—said it to gentle and simple, i did—that, though i'm named driver, i willun't be druv." he came and patted the brute's face, talked to its elemental obstinacy, praised some qualities that only he could find to praise. "there, mister! she willun't be druv. treat her kindly. that's the password. don't drag her bridle, thinking she's going to gallop for the king. you're no horseman now—just a sutler bringing his wares to camp."
michael, out of the harum-scarum years behind, had learned one good thing at least—the gift to pick up sound advice when he found the rare type of man who was fit to give it.
on the road to york his patience was sorely tried. it was easier to lead a squad of cavalry than this crude ass that dragged a cart of garden produce. he tried cajolery of will driver's kind, but had no gift for it. he tried force. nothing served, until it occurred to him to turn her, by sheer strength, with her face to ripley. she turned instantly about, with her face to york, and thereafter the going was quick and pleasant.
"women have taught me something, after all," chuckled michael, as they went forward.
when he came into the lines, he found a press of soldiery about him. they were ravenous, and ate raw cabbages from his cart as if they were beef-steaks.
michael had not known what hunger meant until he saw the faces of these roundheads who were beleaguering york. he went among them with ears open, heard that they had eaten bare the fat lands round about, until no food was left. however it was faring with the garrison behind the city walls, it was certain that the besiegers were thin and mutinous from lack of food.
when his wares were sold, he went up and down the camp, the simplest countryman that ever brought a donkey-load to market; heard of the dissensions among the leaders; knew, once for all, that the puritans, with all their dour talk of heaven waiting for those who denied all joy in life, were much as usual men are—needing food and liquor, and finding a grim temper when ale and victuals were denied them. he brushed shoulders with a thickset, rough-faced officer, who hurried by on some business connected with the siege, and was astonished when he learned that so plain a man was no other than oliver cromwell, of whose genius for warfare and hard blows all yorkshire had been talking lately. later in the day, too, he saw cromwell's ironsides, and their hefty, rugged air roused a wild impulse in him. if only they would pick six-score of their number, and ride out to battle with the metcalf clan, what a fight would be in the doing!
he was losing himself in a daydream, when a musket-ball, fired from the city wall, whizzed so close to his cheek that he put a hand up, thinking he had taken a wound. so then he took his cart to the rear of the camp, got the donkey out of harness and picketed it. the soldiery were digging trenches or taking their ease, some reading bibles, others passing lumbering jests with the women who attend on every camp. he passed among them unheeded, and went the round of york, seeking some way of entry. he saw none, till in the dusk of the april evening he found himself on the river-bank near the grey old bridge. with all his random handling of life, michael had this in common with the riding metcalfs—he answered always to the high call of trust. he was pledged to his folk to make an entry somehow into york, and pass on his message. one way or another he must do it.
as he stood there, the lap-lap and gurgle of the river began to thread itself into his thoughts. there must be some road into york—that was the burden of ouse river's song. and then the thing grew clear. the way into york was here beside him. he doffed coat and boots, dived in, and came up to the top of the roaring current just under the grey bridge. the stream was strong, but so were his arms, thickened by plough-work, field-sports, and many swims in the deep pool of yore that lay beneath his home at nappa. he struck out for the left bank, found it, stepped up the muddy foreshore. when he gained the roadway up above, a sentry came bustling through the april moonlight and challenged him.
"a mecca for the king goes here!" laughed michael, in high good spirits after his battle with the river.
"that's not the password," said the other, fingering his pike.
"it's all you'll get, friend. i seek my lord newcastle."
the sentry, his wits none too sharp at any time, was bewildered by this huge man who had come dripping from the river, this man who talked of the king and my lord newcastle. as he halted, michael rushed forward and snatched his pike from him.
"my lord's lodging—where is it?" he asked, with his big, easy-going air. "your pike in return for the news. and, by the word of a mecca, i'll come back and drown you in the river if you lie to me."
the sentry began to surmise that this man was not human, but a ghost risen from the stream that flowed over many dead. moreover, it was death to him to-morrow if he were found without his weapon at the change of sentry. so he directed michael to the house where lord newcastle was lodged, took the pike in his hands again, and spent a chilly vigil by the river until relief came from his duty for the night.
michael pressed forward through the streets and byways until he found the house he sought. a sentry was on guard here, too. he answered the challenge by running sharply in, closing with his man, and putting him into the street. then he opened the door, and, after he had barred it behind him, went down a wide passage, and heard voices from a chamber on the right. he pushed open that door also, and the men who were holding a council of war within glanced up in sheer astonishment. they saw a giant of a man standing there without boots or coat, ouse river running down him in little runnels that made pools about the bees-waxed floor.
lord newcastle was the first to recover. he glanced across at michael with a scholarly, quiet smile. "your errand?" he asked.
"i carry a message from the riding metcalfs to the garrison of york," answered michael, forgetting all his disarray.
"a damp sort of message," hazarded newcastle.
"i had to swim under york bridge to bring it; and, after that, two sentries challenged me. will you listen, gentlemen, when i tell you that i'm for the king? or will you, too, challenge me?"
truth is a clean sword-blade that always makes a road in front of it. they knew him for a man who had no lies or secrecies about him; and newcastle, with his quick sympathy, suggested that he should drink a bumper to counteract the chill of ouse river before giving them his message.
"by your leave, not till my errand is done," said michael, with that random laugh of his. "when i get near a bumper, i have a trick of forgetting many things."
they laughed with him, as men always did; and with the same easy air, as if he jested, he told them of the riding metcalfs, of their readiness to carry messages or to serve the garrison in any way in the open country wide of york. before his coming there had been high words, dissensions, warring plans of campaign; this talk of six-score men, zealous for the king, united in their claim to serve beleaguered york in any way that offered, brought a breath of fresh air into the council-chamber. it was newcastle who first found voice.
"go find rupert for us," he said.
"ay, find rupert," echoed the others, with a hum of sharp agreement.
"we're shut up here in york," went on newcastle, "and all the news we have is hearsay, brought in by messengers as greatly daring as yourself. some of them say prince rupert is with the king at oxford, some that he's busy in lancashire, raising sieges there. we know not where he is, but you must find him."
michael reached down to touch his sword-belt, but found only the wet breeches he had borrowed from the sutler. "on the sword i do not carry, gentlemen, i pledge one or other of the metcalfs to bring rupert to you."
a jolly, red-faced neighbour of lord newcastle's glanced across at michael. "ah, there's the irish blood in your veins, god bless you! who but an irishman could have swum the ouse and then pledged faith on the hilt of a sword he left behind him?"
"bring rupert to us," insisted newcastle. "tell him that the mere news of his coming would put heart into the garrison—that his presence would light a fire among our famine-stricken folk. i dined on a tough bit of horseflesh to-day, and was glad to get it."
"we'll bring rupert to you," said michael.
when they pressed him to take a measure of the wine that was more plentiful, for a week or so to come, than food, michael glanced down at his disarray. "i would borrow decent raiment before i pledge his majesty. indeed, i did not guess how ashamed i am to be wearing such rough gear."
they found him a suit, and the irishman, in a storm of liking for this man, buckled his own sword on the messenger. "that's the sword you'd have sworn by, sir, if you hadn't left it behind," he explained, with entire gravity.
michael lifted his glass to the king's health, and drained it at a gulp. responsibility always made him thirsty. he drained a second measure; but, when the irishman was filling a third for him, he checked his hand.
"my thanks, but i must get out of york at once, i shall need a clear head for the venture."
"friend, you've done enough for one day," urged newcastle. "sleep here to-night."
"my folk are waiting for me," said michael, with grim persistence.
when they asked how he proposed to make his way out of a city surrounded on all sides, he said that he would return as he came—by water. he added, with a return of his old gaiety, that he preferred this time to ride river ouse like a horse, instead of swimming in deep waters.
"there are boats in york?" he said. "i know the way of oars, and there's a moon to light me."
"you're the man to send in search of rupert," laughed newcastle. "undoubtedly we must find a boat for you."
a half-hour later michael was rowing swiftly up the ouse. twice he was challenged from the banks; once a pistol-ball went singing over his head. he reached the bridge, was nearly wrecked against a pier—the eddies of the current were troublesome—and came through that peril into the moonlit beauty of the open country. he was challenged now by roundhead sentries, and a shot or two went playing dick-duck-drake across the water. he rowed on, and suddenly, across the stillness, a donkey brayed.
michael, left alone with nature, was yielding to the call of superstition in his blood. he remembered that luck had come with buying of a sutler's donkey, and would not leave the brute to the tender mercies of the soldiery. he turned his boat for the right bank, grounded her in the sloping bed of sand, and pushed her out again into the stream—lest the roundheads found a use for her—and went cheerfully in the direction of the braying. the whole procedure was like the man. he was right, perhaps, to trust luck always, for he had known no other guidance from the cradle.
guided half by the music of her voice, half by recollection of the spot where he had picketed her, he found the donkey. two hundred yards or so behind he heard the restless clamour of the besieging camp. in front was the open country.
in the moonlight michael and the donkey regarded each other gravely. "i came back for you, old sinner," he explained.
the brute seemed to understand him, and put a cool snout into his hand.
"i had a thought of riding you," went on michael, pursuing his heedless mood, "but consider the stride of my legs. we'll just have to jog forward on our six feet, you and i."
michael had a sound knowledge of any country he had trodden once, and came without mishap or loss of route to the clump of woodland where his people waited for him. old squire metcalf, as he went out to meet him, broke into a roar of laughter.
"here's michael and one of the company he's wont to keep."
"true, sir," assented michael. "look after this friend of mine; she has had little to eat to-day, and i begin to love her."
for an hour they could not persuade him to tell them what he had learned in york. all his kinsmen's misunderstanding of him in old days—their distrust of the one man among them, except christopher, who asked more than the routine of every day—came to a head. he was like the donkey he had brought back from york—answerable to discipline, if it came by way of sympathy and quiet persuasion.
the squire understood this scapegrace son of his better than he thought. "there, you'll bear no grudge, lad," he said, with quick compunction. "i only jested."
there was a look in michael's face that none of them had seen there in the old days. "was it a jest, sir?"
"a jest. no more."
"then i'll tell you what i learned at york. the roundheads have eaten bare the countryside. their leaders are at variance. within the city the garrison is eating horseflesh, and little of that. lord newcastle bade me give you the one message. find rupert, and bring him here to raise the siege. that is the message."
"then we've work to do," said the squire.
"i have work to do," put in michael peremptorily. "i took the hazard, sir. see you, the business would be noised abroad if six-score of us went galloping across to lancashire, or to oxford, wherever he may be. i pledge myself to find rupert and to bring him."
"since when did you find gravity?" asked the squire testily.
then michael laughed, but not as he had done of yore. "since i found my comrade and bought her for two guineas, with some market produce thrown into the bargain. our folk will see to the welfare of this donkey, sir? she's our luck."
an hour later, as he was getting to horse, he saw christopher come through the clump of woodland.
"what did you learn in york, michael?" he asked.
"what you'd have learned, if you had not been up the hill to see if you could catch a glimpse of ripley castle," said michael, roughened by a sharp gust of jealousy. "ah, the guess goes home, does it? how does it fare with mistress joan?"
"oh, very well, the last i heard."
"and it fares very well with me. i go to bring rupert from the west—to bring rupert. ah, your face reddens at the thought of it!"
kit was lost in one of his high day-dreams. all that he had heard of rupert—the tales hard-fighting men, simple and gentle, told of him—had been woven into a mantle of romance that separated the prince palatine from those of common clay. and michael had the venture.
the elder brother fought a private battle of his own. then something in kit's eager, wistful face—some recollection, maybe, of old days in yoredale—conquered his jealousy. "i should ride the better for kit's company," he said, turning to the squire. "give him to me for the journey."
"as you will," growled richard. "he'll be out of the worst o' harm, at any rate. ladies' eyes are pretty enough in times of peace, but they don't match with war."
every metcalf of them all, save kit himself, laughed slily. they had forgotten sundry backslidings of their own, in ripley here and on the many journeys they had taken. and then michael and his brother rode out, not knowing which way led to rupert, but following the setting sun because it led them westward.
"nobody seems to know, even in ripley, that catches most news, where the prince is. we'd best make for lancashire."
kit was already at his dreams again. "i care not," he said cheerily, "so long as we find him in the end."
"d'ye think he wears a halo, lad?" snapped michael.
"not for you to see, perhaps."
"ah, a neat counter! not for my blurred eyes, eh? kit, you've been reading fairy-lore with mistress joan."
so they went forward into the red of the gloaming, and each was busy with the self-same dream—to find rupert, and to remember joan grant.
