nothing happened along the road as michael and his brother rode forward on their haphazard errand. all was made up of an english april—primroses in the hedgerows, bleating of lambs and fussy ewes, wayfaring farmer-folk about their lands.
they had decided to seek rupert in lancashire, and their best road westward lay through knaresborough, and so forward by way of skipton and the good town of colne.
"the game grows dull," grumbled michael. "we had primroses and lambs in yoredale till i wearied of them. i thought blake promised war and blows when we rode out to nappa."
"the swim into york and the return—they were not enough for you?"
"i yawned so much in yoredale," said the other, with his careless laugh. "there's much leeway to make up, babe christopher."
as they neared knaresborough, michael felt his heart beat again. the sun was free of clouds, and shone full on a town beautiful as a man's dreams of fairyland. at the foot, nidd river swirled; and from the stream, tier on tier, the comely houses climbed the steep cliff-face, with trees and gardens softening all its outline. it was a town to live at ease in and dream high dreams, thought kit, until the wind of a cannon-ball lifted his hat in passing.
"ah, we begin to live," said michael. "your hat is doffed to the king, god bless him!"
at the turn of the road they found a sortie from the garrison hemmed in by fifty odd of fairfax's dour otley men. so michael raised a shout of "a mecca for the king," and kit bellowed the same cry. the fairfax men thought an attack in force had come; the sortie party—twenty of them, and all wounded—found new hope, and, when that affair was done, the metcalfs rode with their new friends through the gateway of the town.
"i give you great thanks, gentlemen," said young phil amory, the leader of the sortie, as the drawbridge clashed behind them. "but for you, there'd have been no knaresborough for us again."
"oh, we happened to ride this way," laughed michael. "life is like that. and i'm devilish hungry, since you remind me of it."
"sir, i did not remind you. we are trying to forget our stomachs."
"you have tobacco in the town?" asked michael anxiously. "good! it's better than a meal. i smoked my last pipeful yesterday."
"good at the fight and the pipe," said amory. "i like you, sir."
so they came in great content—save for three of the company, whose wounds bade them grumble—to the slope that led them to the castle gateway, and were met here by a handful of friends who were riding to relieve them. the ladies of the garrison ran down from the battlements, and kit was dizzied by the adulation shown him by the women. they had bright eyes, these ladies, and a great longing for hero-worship in and between the tiresome hardships of the siege. michael was at home on the instant; battle and ladies' favours had always been his hobbies. but kit drew apart and remembered mistress joan, and a mantle of surprising gravity was draped about him.
there was food of a kind in the dining-hall, with its chimney wide enough to roast an ox. something that was named beef—though the garrison knew it for cold roast dog—was on the table. there was a steaming bowl of hot-pot, and none inquired what went to strengthening the stew of honest peas and lentils. but there was wine left, as at york, and across the board hale good fellows, and good fellows who were not hale at all, pledged christopher and michael.
it was a moment of sheer triumph for these two, for no healthy man can resist the praise of soldiers approving tried soldiers in their midst. when the toasting was done, a man in sober garments rose, lifting his glass with a queer contralto chuckle.
"to the king, gentlemen, and to all good sorties on his majesty's behalf. for myself, as vicar of the parish, i have no part in politics. i take no sides in this vexed question of king and parliament." he let the ripple of mirth go past him, and maintained his gravity. "as a man, the case is different. as a man, you understand, i drink to his majesty, and confusion to all cropheads!"
when the toasts were ended, there was much chatter of what was doing in the outer world. the metcalfs, coming from the open country, were like a news-sheet to these prisoned loyalists. they had to tell all that was afoot in the north, so far as they had learned the to-and-froing during their last months of adventure in the saddle, till at last christopher remembered the errand they were riding on to-day.
"gentlemen, it is time we took horse again," he said, with all the metcalf downrightness. "york is a bigger town than yours, and we've her safety in our keeping."
he glanced up, sure that his brother would back the protest. he saw michael at the far end of the room, preening his feathers under the kind eyes of a lady who palpably admired him. and a little chill took him unawares, as if the season were mid-winter, and some fool had let the wind in through an open door.
"so two men keep the safety of all york," laughed one of the garrison. "there's a fine biblical sound about it, vicar."
"so much to the good, then," said the vicar quietly. "to my mind, those days are here again, and king charles righting the good fight. hey, my masters, you're deaf and blind to the meaning of this trouble." he turned to christopher with a touch of deference that came pleasantly from an old man to a young. "how do you hold york's safety?" he asked. "what is your errand?"
"to find rupert for them."
"and you're riding, two of you, to search england for him?"
"that is our errand, sir."
"ah, that is faith! i wish good luck to your horses' feet."
"we need rupert as much as york needs him," said phil amory. "it's a far cry, though; from here to oxford."
"to oxford?" echoed kit, with sharp dismay. "we thought to find him in lancashire."
"the last news we had," said the vicar—"true, it is a month old by now—was that they kept rupert in oxford, making peace between the rival factions, attending councils—playing maid-of-all-work there, while the north is hungry for his coming. why, his name alone is meat and drink to us."
"so they said in york, sir."
"ay, and so they say wherever men have heard his record. without fear, with a head on his shoulders and a heart in the right place—undoubtedly you ride on a fine errand. if i were younger, and if my cloth permitted, i would join you in the venture."
christopher, seeing his brother still intent on dalliance, went down the room and tapped him on the shoulder. "we get to saddle, michael," he said.
michael, for his part, was astounded at the lad's air of mastery. he was aware, in some vague way, that dalliance of any kind was a fool's game, and that the man with a single purpose assumes command by a law of nature.
"i dandled you on my knee, li'le christopher, not long ago," he said, with his easy laugh.
"my thanks, michael. i stand higher than your stirrup now, and york needs us."
michael had an easy-going heart and a head that was apt to forget important matters; but he rose now, obedient to the baby of the metcalf clan. he paused to kiss the lady's hand, to murmur a wish that he might live to see again the only eyes worth looking into; and then he was a man of action once again, keen for the ride.
miss bingham rose and swept them a grave curtsey. then she glanced at christopher. "if you have a fault, sir—and all paragons have—it is a seriousness that reminds one of the puritan."
she had drawn blood. it flamed in his cheeks for a moment, then died down. "i'm neither paragon nor puritan—and no ladies' man," he added, with a touch of downright malice.
"so much is obvious. you lack practice in the art, but you will learn in time."
kit, in some odd way, felt youthful and ashamed. this girl, little older than himself, disdained his singleness of purpose, his fervour for the cause. "oh, i leave that to michael," he said, clumsily enough.
she was tired of warfare and the siege, and bore kit a grudge because he had interrupted the diverting game of hearts that she and michael had been playing. "you are riding to find rupert?" she asked, her voice like velvet. "he's the prince to you—a paragon indeed—no ladies' man. sir, when you find him, ask how it fares with the duchess of richmond, and see if his face changes colour."
"it is not true," said kit passionately.
"how downright and fatiguing boys are! what is not true, sir?"
"all that you left unsaid."
michael clapped him on the shoulder. "good for you, li'le kit! all that women say is enough to drown us; but what they leave unsaid would sink a navy."
"go, find your prince," said miss bingham, with the same dangerous gentleness; "but, on your honour, promise to remind him of the duchess. i should grieve to picture such a gallant without—oh, without the grace women lend a man."
"michael, we're wasting a good deal of time," said kit, disliking this girl a little more. "there'll be time enough for nonsense when we've brought rupert into york."
michael stood irresolute for a moment, divided, as his way was, between the separate calls of heart and head. and into the midst of his irresolution a guest intruded rudely. there had been a steady cannonading of the town, as reprisal after the sortie, and one among the lumbering iron balls crashed through the wall of the dining-chamber, near the roof, passed forward and brought down a heavy frame—known as a "bread-creel" in the north here—on which oat-cakes were spread out to dry. with fuel scarce, they had learned to make kitchen and dining-chamber one. the cannon-ball buried itself in the masonry beyond. the bread-creel missed miss bingham's pretty head by a foot or so. one end of it struck kit on the shoulder, reopening a new wound; the other tapped michael on the skull, and put dreams of rupert out of mind for many a day.
the men at the far end of the hall ran forward. they found michael lying prone. one cross-piece of the creel was broken, where it had encountered his tough head, and all about the floor was a drift of the brittle oat-cake that had been drying overhead a moment since.
"a queer beginning for their ride," said young phil amory.
michael opened two devil-may-care eyes between one forgetting and the next. "life's like that, my lad. one never knows."
they carried him to an inner room, and miss bingham watched amory and another trying to stanch kit's wound.
"you're clumsy at the business," she said, putting them aside. with deft hands she fastened a tourniquet above the wound, and dressed it afterwards. then she brought him wine; and, when a tinge of colour returned to his face, she crossed to the window and stood there, watching the red flare of cannonry that crossed the april sunlight.
"my thanks, miss bingham," said kit, following her.
"oh, none are needed! i am a little proud of my nursing skill, learned here in knaresborough. believe me, i would have done as much for any trooper."
"still, any trooper would find grace to thank you."
her eyes met his. there was blandishment in them, withdrawal, enmity. men were a game to her. spoiled and flattered, accustomed to homage that had never found her heart, she thought men heartless, too, and the game a fair one.
"thanks mean so little. would you have had me watch you bleed to death? is there no one in the world who would have missed you?"
"i do not know," said kit, with a thought of yoredale and the light in ripley castle.
"ah, there's another secret out! she has flouted my dear puritan."
"i will not have that name! there was never a metcalf yet but stood for the king."
the cannonade outside grew louder, and miss bingham looked out again at the red spurts of flame. "a painter should be here," she said, turning at last. "my six-foot puritan, what a picture it would make—the blue april sky, and the little tufts of cloud, fleecy as lambs'-wool, and the outrageous crimson flaring from the guns! will they contrive to hit the castle again, think you? it is time their marksmanship improved."
"i was thinking of prince rupert," he said stubbornly. "if michael cannot ride with me, i must go alone."
miss bingham's heart was touched at last. this man, who could scarce stand from loss of blood, disdained her coquetry, and had one purpose—to find rupert for the raising of the siege at york. selfless, reliant in the midst of weakness, he saw the one goal only.
he bade her farewell, and asked amory to find his horse for him. "but, sir, it is death to sit a saddle," protested the other. "your wound——"
"it must heal or break again. that is the wound's concern. mine is to find rupert, as i promised."
amory glanced quietly at him and wondered at the hardness of the man. "how will you get through the besiegers? their cannon are pretty busy, as you hear."
"i had forgotten the besiegers. i must leave my horse, then, and find a way out on foot."
he got half-way to the outer gate, his weakness palpable at every step. then his foot tripped against a cannon-ball that had fallen yesterday. he fell on his right shoulder, and the wound reopened in grim earnest.
miss bingham was the most troubled, maybe, of all the knaresborough garrison during the week that followed. by all past knowledge of herself michael should have been her chief concern. he was so gay and likeable, as he recovered slowly from his head-wound; his tongue was so smooth, his heart so bendable to the lightest breeze of a woman's skirts. yet she found herself constantly at kit's bedside, fighting the evil temper that had mastered him. he was consumed with rebellion against this weakness that kept him abed, and his persistent cry was that rupert needed him, and would know that he had failed. he was still so young to the world that he believed all england knew what the riding metcalfs were doing for their king.
on the fourth day, to ease his trouble, miss bingham lied. she said that michael was hale and well again, and had gone out in search of rupert. kit took the news quietly, and she slipped away to see that his noon-day meal was ready. when she returned with the tray, she found christopher up and dressed. he was fumbling at the buckle of his sword-belt with all a sick man's impatience.
"what are you doing, sir?" she cried, in frank dismay.
"getting ready for the road. michael is too easy-going to be trusted single-handed; and york, i tell you, needs the prince."
"it will see him none the sooner if you die by the roadside now, instead of waiting till you're healed."
"but michael—you do not know him. he means so well and dares so much; but the first pretty face that looks out o' window draws him."
"to be frank, he is in no danger of that kind," said miss bingham demurely. "he lies in the next room and talks to me as colonel lovelace might—deft flattery and homage and what not. i thought all cavaliers were smooth of tongue, as he is—until i met my puritan."
"you said that he had gone to seek rupert."
"oh, i said. what will not women say? their tongues are wayward."
"for my part, give me men," said kit, with blunt challenge.
the end of that escapade was a high fever, that taxed miss bingham's skill and the patience that was foreign to her. michael, too, in spite of all his gaiety, saw death come very close to his bedside. it was not the blows they had taken here in knaresborough that had knocked their strength to bits. in the months that had passed since the riding out from yoredale, each had taken wounds, time and time again, had tied any sort of bandage round them, and gone forward to the next sharp attack. they were proud of their tough breed, and had taken liberties with a strength that was only human, after all. and now they were laid by in a backwater of life, like riddled battleships in need of overhauling.
it was when kit was in that odd half-way land between great weakness and returning strength that a sudden turmoil came to him. his memory of joan grant grew weak and fugitive. with him day by day was miss bingham, who had forgotten long since how to pick a quarrel. the beauty of an experience new to her spoiled life gave warmth and colour to a face that had once been merely pretty.
on one of these afternoons—a spurt of rain against the windows, and the sullen roar of guns outside—he lay watching her as she sat by the bedside, busy with a foolish piece of embroidery. she was very near, had nursed him with devotion, had smoothed his pillow many times for him.
"agnes," he said, "what will you say to me when my strength comes back, and i've brought rupert into york?"
so then she knew that battle is not only for the men. she met her trouble with a courage that surprised her. "i—i should bid my puritan go seek the lady who once flouted him. oh, boy, you're in a dream! when you wake, remember that i nursed you back to health."
two days later kit was so far recovered that he was allowed to move abroad; and, while his strength was returning, the vicar was his close companion. something in kit's bearing—dour hardihood half concealing some spiritual fire that burned beneath it—had attracted this parish priest since the lad's first coming. he showed him the comely parsonage, with its garden sloping to the wide bosom of the nidd; talked of the town's beauty and antiquity—topics dear to him. then, one afternoon, near gloaming, he led him up the steep face of the cliff to st. robert's cell.
what is sown in the time between great sickness and recovery—good or ill—is apt to abide with a man, like impressions of the earlier childhood. and kit, until he died, would not forget this hermitage, carved out of the solid rock that bottomed the whole town of knaresborough. without, facing the world that st. robert had known, was his coat-of-arms, as if daring gossip to deny his record in the stress of battle. within was a narrow chamber, roofed and floored by rock; at one end an altar, at the side a bed of stone—that, and the water dripping from the walls, and a strange sense of peace and holiness, as if a spirit brooded round about the place.
"here is peace, sir," said kit, a quick fire glowing in his eyes.
"ah, yes. you would feel it, i was sure. i bring few guests to this sanctuary."
kit glanced at him. the kindly smile, the trust and friendship of the parson's voice, brought back yoredale and a flood of memories. when they went out into the dusk again, a red flare spurted from the castle battlements, and in return there came the din of roundhead cannon, and kit's face hardened suddenly.
"true," said the vicar, touching his arm. "such as you must go through blare and gunshot before they tame their bodies. good luck to you, lad, and strike shrewdly for the king."
the next day kit was so far recovered that he would not stay under the same roof with miss bingham; memories of joan, who was far away, warred with his liking for this maid, who came less often to cajole and tease him back to health. it was easier to go out and rough it in the honest open. he was haunted, moreover, by the mystery and calm of that stone cell, where a dead man had left his living presence.
michael had been fit for the road three days before, but would not leave his brother, since he had promised him the venture. and, moreover, miss bingham was kind again, after a season of indifference and neglect.
the old question was revived—by what means they should get through the besieging force. "there is only one way, obviously," said michael, with his rollicking laugh. "we must go horsed. will not phil amory lead a sortie?"
"phil amory will," agreed the youngster cheerily. "these rogues have been pelting us long enough with cannon-balls."
the governor assented willingly. hazard in the open was healthy for these high-mettled lads, who were pining under the inaction of the siege. "you shall go as you came, gentlemen," he said, with his grave smile. "one good turn deserves another."
they waited till one of the sentries on the battlements sent word that the besiegers were at their mid-day meal. he added that words had passed between himself and three of their men, who had shouted that pluck was dead in knaresborough.
"ah!" said phil amory.
they mounted—forty of the garrison and the two metcalfs—and the gate opened for them. it was kit—a free man again, with the enemy close in front—who lifted the first battle-cry.
"a mecca for the king!" he roared, and his horse went light under him, as if it trod on air.
the besiegers ran hurriedly to their horses. some mounted, others had no time. into the thick of them crashed the sortie, and the work was swift and headlong in the doing. through the steam and odours of the interrupted meal the attack crashed forward, till the sortie party, breathless, with a queer glee fluting at their hearts, found themselves at the far side of the town.
"you made a lane for us once," said phil amory. "now we've made a lane for you. there's no time for farewells, friends—put spurs to your horses and gallop."
he gave michael no time for the protest ready to his lips, but turned about, and, with a bugle-cry of "knaresborough for the king!" dashed through the enemy again. the metcalfs waited till they saw the gate close on the forty who had hacked a way to liberty for them, and michael half hoped they would be needed, because miss bingham was sheltered by the castle walls.
"we have the road to rupert, now," said kit.
"so we have, lad."
"then why look back at knaresborough? you're in a dream, michael."
"the prettiest eyes in england set me dreaming. i've good excuse."
so kit, a little sore on his own account, and with a heartache hidden somewhere, grew serious as only the very young can do. "there is rupert waiting for us," he snapped.
"ah, true, grave brother. let's get to oxford, and the duchess of richmond will cure me of this folly, maybe. there, lad, not so fiery! it's no crime that a duchess should have pleasant eyes. even princes must warm themselves at the hearth just now and then."
"what route to take?" asked kit by and by, coming down from his pedestal of high, romantic gravity.
"we'll go by the sun so far as the winding roads will let us. oxford lies south-west. chance and the sun, between them, shall decide; but we had best keep free of towns and garrisons."
"undoubtedly," growled christopher. "there would be the finest eyes in england glancing at you through the lattices."
in this odd way the brothers, different in experience and outlook, but bound together by some deep tie of affection, took up the hazard of a ride that was to end, they hoped, at oxford. there was a fine, heedless simplicity about it all, a trust in open country and the sun's guidance, that was bred in the metcalf men.
