oxford was keeping holiday. the queen, sure that her husband was facing trouble at too short a range, persuaded him—for her own pleasure, she asserted—to hold a pageant in a field on the outskirts of the city. it was good, she said, that well-looking cavaliers should have a chance of preening their feathers until this dull waiting-time was over—good that tired ladies of the court should get away from men's jealousies and wrangles, and air their graces. so a masque had been written and arranged within a week, the zest in it running side by side with the constant expectation of the metcalfs' coming.
the masque was fixed for twelve o'clock; and, an hour before noon, the company of players began to ride up the high street on their way to the playing field. mary of scots passed badinage with a franciscan friar as they rode in company; a jester went by, tickling cardinal wolsey in the ribs until the great crowd lining either side the street laughed uproariously. the day was in keeping with it all—sunlight on the storied houses, lush fragrance of the lilac, the song of birds from every branch of every tree.
from up the street there came, sudden as a thunder-clap, the clash of horses' feet. the masqueraders drew aside, to right and left, with little heed for wayfarers. and down the lane, bordered thick with faces, there came a band of men who did not ride for pageantry.
in front of them—he had been thrust into leadership by the squire of nappa, who had guessed his ambition and his dream—rode a little man on a little, wiry mare. blood was dripping from a wound on his cheek; his right arm hung limp. he did not seem to be aware of all this disarray, but rode as a conqueror might do. the dream sufficed him.
a draper in the crowd, whose heart was bigger than the trade that hemmed him in, raised a strident cry: "why, it's little blake! wounds over him, from head to foot—but it's little blake."
and then blake's dream came true. to the full he tasted the incense of men's praise, long worked for, yet unsought. all down the high street the running murmur went that blake was here; and the people saw his wounds, the gay, courageous smile in answer to their greeting, and their cheers redoubled.
the pageant-makers, thrust aside by the steady, uncompromising trot of the metcalfs, lost their first irritation—forgot the boredom that had settled on them during these idle days—and raised a cheer as lusty as the townfolks'. the street was one sunlit length of white horses moving forward briskly, four by four; the big men on them were white with dust, and ruddier splashes of the warfare at banbury showed here and there. it was as if the days of old were back again, and northmen riding, with a single heart and purpose, to a second flodden. they moved, not as six-score men, but as one; and when the old squire drew rein presently, they, too, pulled up, answering the sharp command as a sword answers to the master's hand.
"by your leave, sir," said the squire, "we come in search of prince rupert. can you direct us to his lodging?"
it happened that it was digby he addressed—digby of the soft voice, the face like a cherub's, and the tongue of an old, soured woman. "i could not say," he answered. of all the cavaliers there, he only was unmoved by the strength and fine simplicity of these riders into oxford. "if i were aware where the duchess of richmond is to be found, i could direct you."
a stormy light came into the squire's grey eyes. "we have heard of the duchess. her name is fragrant in the north, sir, save where ostlers gather at the tavern and pass gossip on for gaping yokels."
"countered, you dandy!" laughed digby's neighbour. "grooms in oxford and grooms in the north—hey, where's the difference?"
"we shall prove it, sir, at dawn to-morrow," said digby, his hand slipping to his sword-hilt.
"oh, content. i always liked to slit a lie in two, and see the two halves writhe and quiver."
the squire of nappa, looking at these two, guessed where the danger of the king's cause lay. men see clearly when heart and soul and purpose are as one. if two of his own company had offered and accepted such a duel openly, he would have taken them, one in either hand, and knocked their heads together, in the interests of discipline. in oxford, it seemed usual that private differences should take precedence of the king's service, and the squire felt chilled for the first time since he rode out from yoredale.
prince rupert had shared a late breakfast with the duke of richmond and the duchess, who was, in heart and soul, a great lady beyond the reach of paltry malice. rupert was moody, irritable. he was sick for pageantry in the doing—gallop of his cavalry with swords glancing on roundhead skulls—blows given for the health of the reigning king, instead of play-acting to the memory of buried monarchs. he was passionately disdainful of this pageant in which he was to play a part, though at the moment he was donning mediaeval armour.
"i should have held aloof from it all," he protested.
"no," said the duchess. "there could have been no pageantry without you. believe me, it is good for us to have action, if only in the playing—it lights dull days for us."
rupert strode up and down the floor with his restless, long-legged stride. "i'm to figure as richard the crusader," he said, tired of himself and all things. "i ask you, friends, do i show like a crusader?"
"your temper of the moment does not, but a man's past goes with him," she broke in, with her soft, infectious laugh. "of all the king's gentlemen i know, my husband here, and you, stand nearest to the fine crusading days. to please us both, you will play your part?"
rupert was beyond reach of blandishment. there was a fire from the over-world about him; men and women grew small in the perspective, and only the vigour and abiding zeal he had for the king's service remained to guide him, like a taper shining through a night of trouble.
"friends," he said, simply as a child, "i had a dream last night. i dreamed that prayers were answered at long last, and that the sea rode into oxford—a gallant sea, creamed with white horses riding fast."
"how should that be?" laughed the duke. "it was a tired man's dream."
"it was more," said rupert sharply. "it was a true vision of the days to come. i tell you, the white horses rode into oxford like a crested sea. i knew they came to help me, and i grew tired of pageantry." he smiled at his own gravity, and reached out for his crusader's sword. "come," he broke off, "coeur de lion should be punctual to the tryst."
they came into the high street, the three of them; and rupert checked his horse with a thrill of wonderment. not until now had he guessed what the strain of these last idle days had been. he saw the gallant sea ride into oxford, as in his dream—saw it ride down to meet him, creamed with white horses moving at the trot. he was a free man again.
and then the crowd's uproar ceased. they saw rupert, their idol, spur forward sharply, saw the company of metcalfs halt as one man when their squire drew rein.
"you are the metcalfs, come from york, i think," said rupert. ten years seemed lifted from him in a moment. "gentlemen, we've waited for you. the king will make you very welcome."
"we came to find prince rupert," said the squire of nappa, uncovering, "and, god be thanked, i think we've found him. you are like my picture of you."
the squire's errand was accomplished. by hard stages, wakefulness o' nights, banter or the whiplash of his tongue by day, he had brought these high-mettled thoroughbreds into oxford. it was a relief to take orders now, instead of giving them.
"sir, they're asking for pageantry in oxford," said the prince, "and, by richard coeur de lion, they shall have their fill. permit me to command your troop."
the duchess, not for the first time, was surprised by the right-to-be-obeyed that rupert carried with him. instinctively the metcalfs made a lane between their sweating horses, and she found herself riding through the pleasant reek of horseflesh until they came to the end of this long avenue of men.
rupert was himself again—no longer an idler, exchanging growls with enemies in council, but a man, at the head of the finest cavalry even his proved judgment had encountered so far. when they came to the pageant field, he bade them dismount and do as they pleased for an hour; at the hour's end they were to be ready and alert.
when the king arrived by and by with his queen, a great wave of loyalty went put to greet them. however it fared with his shifting fortunes, he was here among friends, and knew it. the knowledge was heartening; for charles had gone through bitter struggle to keep an unmoved face when all he loved seemed racing to disaster.
the pageant moved forward; but the crowd was lukewarm until richard the crusader came, and then they went mad about the business.
"how they love him!" said the king, his face flushed with pleasure.
the queen touched him on the arm as only wives do who have proved their men. "and you—how the good city loves you! to have captured oxford's heart—ah, will you not understand how big your kingdom is? in london—oh, they are shopkeepers. in oxford there is the great heart beating. gain or loss, it does not matter here."
when the crusading scene was ended, and while some affair of royalty granting a charter to dull-witted burgesses was in the playing, rupert came to the king's side. "there's a modern episode to follow, sir, if you are pleased to watch it."
"ah, no!" pleaded the queen, with her pretty blandishment. "it would be a pity, rupert, to be less than coeur de lion. the armour fits you like a glove."
"i think you lived once in those days, rupert of the fiery heart," laughed the king; "but no man thrives on looking back. go, bring your modern mummers in!"
rupert brought them in. he doffed his mediæval armour somewhere in the background of the field, and donned the raiment he liked better.
"are you ready, metcalfs?" he asked, pleasantly.
with the punctilio that was part of the man, he insisted that the squire of nappa should ride beside him at the head of this good company. they thundered over the field, wheeled and galloped back. it was all oddly out of keeping with the pageantry that had gone before. in playing scenes of bygone centuries men gloss over much of the mud and trouble of the times; but here were six-score men who had the stain of present traffic on them.
the king himself, grave and reticent since the troubled days came, clapped hands as he watched the sweeping gallop, the turn-about, the precision of the troop when they reined in and saluted as if one man had six-score hands obeying the one ready loyalty. but the queen grew pitiful; for she saw that most of these well-looking fellows carried wounds and a great tiredness.
"what is this scene you play?" asked the king.
"sir, it is the riding metcalfs, come to help me raise recruits for the relief of york. coeur de lion died long ago, but these northmen are alive for your service."
"my thanks, gentlemen," said charles. "by the look of you, i think you could relieve york without other help."
rupert pressed home his point. "grant us leave, sir, to go wide through lancashire and raise the siege of lathom first. my lord derby was here only yesterday, after long travel from the isle of man."
the queen, knowing how persistently lord derby had been maligned, how men had poisoned the king's mind against him, caught rupert's eye and frowned at him. his nimble wit caught the challenge and answered it.
"sir," he said, with the swiftness and assurance of a cavalry attack, "remember lady derby there at lathom. she has held out for weary months—a woman, with a slender garrison to help her—has held out for the honour of the stuart. give me my metcalfs, and other troops to raise, and grant us leave to go by way of lathom house."
the king smiled. "i thought you a fighter only, rupert. now you're an orator, it seems. go, rescue lady derby; but, as you love me, save york. there are only two cities on the map to me these days—york and oxford. the other towns count loss and gain, as tradesmen do."
long stress of misunderstanding, futile gossip of courtiers unemployed, dripping poison into the king's mind, were swept away. "as god sees me, sir, i ride only for your honour. the metcalfs ride only for your honour."
"ah, coeur de lion," laughed the king, "have your own way of it, and prosper."
at lathom house, three days ago, there had been a welcome addition to the garrison. kit metcalf—he of the sunny smile, because he loved a maid and was not wedded to her whimsies yet—had ridden to the outskirts of the house, had dismounted, left his horse to roam at large, and had crept warily through the moonlight that shone on sleeping men and wakeful sentries. on the left of the moat, near the rounded clump of sedge that fringed its turning, he saw two sentries chatting idly between their yawns.
"it's a poor affair, giles, this of keeping awake to besiege one woman."
"a poor affair; but, then, what could you look for from an officer of rigby's breed? sir thomas fairfax had no liking for the business. we've no liking for it."
kit ran forward through the moonlight, gripped them with his right hand and his left—neither hand knowing just what the other was doing—and knocked their skulls together with the strength given him by providence. they tumbled forward over the brink of the moat, and kit himself dived in.
when he came to the water's top again, he swam quietly to the further bank, then went in great tranquillity up the grassy slope that led him to the postern gate, and was surprised when he was challenged sharply. remembering what he had gone through for the stuart, he thought, in his simple country way, that comrades of the same breed would know him, as dog knows brother-dog, without further parley. when he was asked who went there, his temper fired, though the wet of his crossing should have damped its powder.
"a mecca for the king, you wastrel! have you not heard of us?"
"by your leave, yes," said the sentry, with sudden change of front. "all lancashire has heard of you. what is your business here?"
"to see lady derby instantly."
he was passed forward into the castle, and a grey-headed man-servant came to meet him. again he said curtly what his business was.
"it is out of question, sir," the man protested. "my lady has had three sleepless nights. she gave orders that she should not be roused till dawn, unless, indeed, there was danger from the enemy."
kit was headstrong to fulfil his errand to the letter. "go, rouse her!" he said sharply. "i come from the king at oxford, and my news cannot wait."
