rupert got to horse, and rode through the press and uproar of the camp. confusion was abroad. to the cavaliers, though some of them might regard evensong lightly, it meant at least a truce until the next day's dawn; and now they were attacked by an enemy who did not scruple to combine prayer with craftiness. down from the rye-fields they saw the horsemen and the footmen come, and only rupert could have steadied them in this black hour.
"we meet cromwell's horse," he cried, getting his own men into line this side the little ditch, "and, gentlemen, we owe cromwell many debts."
stiff and stour it was, that fight at the ditch. the old, stark battles were recalled—crecy, and agincourt, and flodden—for it was all at pitiless close quarters. first they exchanged pistol-shots; then, throwing their pistols in each other's faces with a fury already at white heat, they fell to with sword and pike. overhead the storm broke in earnest. the intermittent crackle of gunshots, from the sharpshooters lining the hedges, mingled with the bellow of the thunder and that clamour of hard-fighting men which has the wild beast note.
newcastle, asleep in his coach at the far side of the moor, was roused by the uproar. he did not know what had chanced, but the waking was of a piece with the nightmares that had haunted his brief slumber. his limbs ached, the weariness of york's long siege was on him, but he ran forward, sword in hand, and asked the first man he met what was in the doing. then he sought for his company and could not find them, except a handful of the gallant leightons; so he pressed forward, unmounted, crying his name aloud, and asking all who heard him to make up a troop. he gathered drift and flotsam of the running battle—he whose dream had been of a mounted charge, with picked cavalry behind him—and they fought on the left wing with a wild and cheery gallantry.
on the right, the ironsides still faced rupert's men, and neither would give way. once, in a lull of the berserk struggle, when either side had withdrawn a little to take breath, a great hound pressed his way through the royalists and came yelping forward in search of rupert. he came into the empty space between the king's men and cromwell's, and a gunshot flashed; and boye struggled on the sodden ground, turned his head in dying search for rupert, the well-beloved, and so lay still.
from the ironsides a storm of plaudits crossed a sudden thunder-clap. "there goes the arch-papist of them all," came a voice drunk with battle.
and something broke at rupert's heart. it was as if he stood alone entirely—as if the world were ended, somehow. "ah, boye," he murmured. and then he led a charge so furious that the ironsides all but broke. it was cromwell rallied them, and for an hour the fight went forward. the hedge was levelled now, and the ditch filled in by the bodies of the slain. time after time rupert found himself almost within striking distance of cromwell. they were seeking each other with a settled, fervent purpose. and the fight eddied to and fro; and the rain came down in wild, unending torrents.
the chance sought by rupert came to michael metcalf, as it chanced. pushed to one side of the press, he found himself facing a rough-hewn parliament man in like case, and parried a fierce sword-cut with his pike. then he drew back the pike, felt it quiver like a live thing in his hands, and drove it through the other's fleshy neck. it was only when the man wavered in saddle, and he had leisure for a moment's thought, that he knew his adversary. a trooper of the parliament snatched the wounded rider's bridle, dragged his horse safely to the rear, and michael raised a wild, impulsive shout:
"cromwell is down! a mecca for the king."
rupert heard the cry, and drew his men a little away, to get speed for the gallop. his crashing charge drove back the roundheads twenty paces, and no more. they were of good and stubborn fibre, and the loss of cromwell bade them fight with sullen hardihood. at the end of, it might be, fifteen minutes they had regained a foot or two of their lost ground, and cromwell, getting his wound bandaged at the thatched cottage up above, asked another wounded roundhead, who came for the like succour, how it fared.
"as may be," growled the other. "if so thou'rt not dead, as we fancied, get down and hearten them."
"i've a thick throat, and the pike took the fleshy part," said cromwell, with a deep, unhumorous laugh. "i'll get down."
he mounted with some difficulty. pluck cannot always conquer in a moment great loss of blood and weakness of the body. once in the saddle, his strength returned to him; but he rode down too late. rupert's men had followed their old tactics, had retreated again to gain speed for the onslaught, and were driving the enemy before them in hot pursuit.
cromwell, after narrow escape of being ridden down by his own folk, after vain efforts to rally them again, found himself alone. the wound in his throat was throbbing at its bandages. the rain ran down him in rivulets, and the world seemed filled with thunder and the cries of men. word reached him that eythin, too, had broken through, and that all parliament men were bidden to save themselves as best they might. and so he left the field; and the sickness of defeat, more powerful than body-sickness, caught him as he neared the smithy, this side of tockwith village. a farm-lad, returning from selling a cow at boroughbridge, found him in the roadway, fallen from his horse, and carried him into the smithy-house. they tended his wound. within an hour his lusty strength of purpose came to his aid. he asked for meat and ale, and said he must get ready for the road. he was known by this time; but even the blacksmith, royalist to the core of his big body, would not hinder his going. a man of this breed must be given his chance, he felt.
"after all," he muttered, watching cromwell ride unsteadily down the moonlit road, "they say marston moor has lost yorkshire to the parliament for good and all. some call him old noll, and othersome old nick—but he'll do little harm i' these parts now, i reckon."
"a soft heart and a big body—they go always fools in company," said his goodwife. "i'd not have let him go so easy, i."
"ay, but ye wod, if i'd been for keeping him. ye're like a weather-cock, daft wife. when i point south, thou'st always for veering round to north—or t'other way about, just as it chances."
cromwell rode back toward marston, to find his men. he was kin to rupert in this—disaster or triumph, he must find those who needed him. at the end of a half-mile he met a rider cantering up the rise. the moonlight was clear and vivid, after the late storm, and the rider pulled his horse up sharply.
"the battle is ours, general, and i've my lord fairfax's orders for you."
"the battle is ours?" demanded cromwell gruffly. "i do not understand."
"none of us understand. fairfax was three miles away, sleeping in a farmstead bed-chamber, when we roused him with the news. it was leslie's men who broke their centre and drove round rupert's flank. the thunder was in all our brains, i fancy."
cromwell laughed. all his austerity, his self-pride warring against the humility he coveted, were broken down, as rupert's cavalry had been. "then it's for the siege of york again?" he asked.
"fairfax says the risk is too great. the moor is full of our dead, and we're not strong enough. he bids you get your men together and hold ripley, going wide of knaresborough—which is a hornet's nest—until further orders reach you. that is my message, general."
"good," said cromwell, tightening the bandage round his throat. "where are my men?"
he found them—those who were left—in scattered companies. and a lusty roar went up as they saw him ride through the moonlight, swaying on the thick farm-cob that carried him.
"it's fourteen miles to ripley, lads, but we'll cover it."
on marston moor the royalists had pursued their advantage to the full. rupert's men and eythin's had run wild on the ridge-fields up above. and leslie saw his chance. with his scots he charged down on the white coats, weakened by siege before the fight began. they kept their pledge; their coats were dyed with crimson martyrdom—and so they died to a man, resisting leslie's charge.
leslie himself paused when the work was done. "they were mettled thoroughbreds," he said huskily. "and now, friends, for the ditch that rupert leaves unguarded."
it was so, in this incredible turmoil of storm and fight and havoc, that the battle of long marston was lost to the king. rupert, getting his men in hand at long last, returned to face another hand-to-hand encounter. with the middlewing past sharing any battle of this world, the affair was hopeless. rupert would not admit as much. the metcalfs, a clan lessened since they joined in evensong an hour ago, would not admit it. to the last of their strength they fought, till all were scattered save a few of them.
down the rough lane past wilstrop wood—a lane pitted deep with ruts—the royalists fled headlong. and at the far side of the wood, where the lane bent round to a trim farmstead, there was a piteous happening. a child, standing at the gate in wonderment at all the uproar and the shouting, saw a press of gentry come riding hard, and began to open the gate for them, bobbing a curtsey as the first horseman passed. he did not see her. those behind did not see her, but, pressing forward roughly—pressed in turn by those behind—the weight of them was thrust forward and broke down the gate.
after their passing a woman came from the farmsteading, eager to go out and see how it had fared with her husband, a volunteer for rupert. under the broken gate she found a little, trampled body; and all her heart grew stony.
"lord god," she said, "thou knows't men make the battles, but the women pay for them."
on marston moor the squire of nappa had found his coolness return when it was needed most. the prince, and he, and christopher, their horses killed under them long since, had just won free of a hot skirmish at the rear of their retreating friends, and were left in a quiet backwater of the pursuit.
"best get away," he said. "you're needed to see to the aftermath of this red harvest."
his sturdy common sense had struck the true note. rupert had had in mind to die fighting, since all else was lost. and now the little, fluting note of trust came to him through the havoc. he was needed.
they came, these three, to the clayey lands—wet and sticky to the feet—that bordered wilstrop wood. the storm, tired of its fury, had rent the clouds apart with a last soaking deluge, and the moon shone high, tender as a madonna yearning to bring peace on earth.
a fresh pursuit came near them, and they turned into a field of flowering beans on their left. they heard the pursuit go by. then they heard a litany of pain come out from wilstrop wood, where wounded cavaliers had taken refuge. and from marston moor there was the ceaseless crying—not good to hear—of horses that would never again, in this world, at least, find the stride of a gallop over open fields.
to these three, hidden in the bean-field, came an odd detachment from the pity and the uproar of it all. nothing seemed to matter, except sleep. the heat, and rain, and burden of that bitter hour just ended were no more than nightmares, ended by this ease of mind and body that was stealing over them. it was good to be alive, if only to enjoy this pleasant languor.
the squire of nappa laughed sharply as he got to his feet. "at my age, to go sleeping in a field of flowering beans! as well lie bed-fellow with poppies. d'ye guess what i dreamed just now? why, that i was crowned king in london, with noll cromwell, dressed as venus, doing homage to me."
"ah, don't rouse me, father," grumbled kit. "i'm smelling a yoredale byre again, and hear the snod kine rattling at their chains."
but rupert, when at last he, too, was roused, said nothing of his dream. it had been built of moons and stardust—made up of all the matters he had lost in this queer life of prose—and he would share it with no man.
when they got to the pastures again—blundering as men in drink might do—the free, light air that follows thunder blew about their wits. it was rupert who first spoke. he remembered that men in flight were trusting him, were needing a leader.
"friends," he said, "i'm for york. do you go with me?"
the noise from wilstrop wood, the cries from the moor, grew small in the hearing as they made their way to a speck of light that showed a half-mile or so in front. two farm-dogs sprang out on them when they reached the farmstead; but the fugitives knew the way of such, and passed unhindered.
"are ye fro' marston, gentles?" asked the farmer, limping out to learn what the uproar was about. "ay? then how has the king sped?"
"we are broken," said rupert simply.
"well, i'm sorry. step in and shelter. ye'd be the better for a meal, by the look o' ye. 'tis the least i can do for his majesty, seeing my two rheumy legs kept me fro' riding to his help."
"have you three horses we can borrow, friend?"
"nay, i've but two. you're welcome to them; and they're sound-footed, which is more than their master can say of himself."
while they snatched a meal of beef and bread, christopher glanced at the prince. "i know my way on foot to ripley, and they may need me there," he said.
"the fields will be packed with danger, lad. run at my stirrup, till by good luck we find a third horse on the road to york."
"let him be," growled the old squire. "there's a lady lives at ripley. lovers and drunkards seldom come to harm, they say."
"ah, so!" for a moment there was a glow of tenderness in rupert's sombre eyes. "it is good to hear the name of lady after the late happenings. get forward, sir, and guard her."
christopher saw them get to horse and take the track that led to york. then he fared out into the moonlit pastures, took his bearings, and headed straight for ripley. the distance was less than twelve miles by the field-tracks; but, by the route he took, it was slow to follow. the clay-lands were waterlogged by the late storm; the hedges to be broken through were high and thorny; but these were not the greatest of his troubles. it had been no velvet warfare, that hour's fight on the moor. constantly, as kit went forward, he heard a groan from the right hand or the left, and stayed to tend a wounded comrade. there was peril, too, from horses roaming, maddened and riderless, in search of the masters they had lost.
the first two miles were purgatory, because kit's heart was young, and fiery, and tender, because he felt the sufferings of the wounded as his own. the flight, on this side of the moor, went no further; and for the rest of the journey he had only trouble of the going to encounter. he came late to ripley castle; and the sentry who answered to his knocking on the gate opened guardedly.
"who goes?" he asked.
"christopher metcalf, sick with thirst and hunger."
the door was thrown open suddenly. in the ill-lighted hall he saw ben waddilove, the old manservant of the grants, who had ridden—long since, when last year's corn was yellowing to harvest—in charge of mistress joan.
marston moor was forgotten. the troubles of the day and night were forgotten, as sunlight dries the rain. kit was a lover. "how is the mistress, ben?" he asked.
"oh, her temper's keen and trim. mistress grant ails naught. i suppose marston's lost and won? well, it had to be, i reckon. who brought the news to ripley, think ye?"
"i couldn't guess, you old fool."
"oh, may be old—but not so much of a fool, maybe. he's in yonder, closeted wi' lady ingilby in the parlour. i kenned him at first sight by the lap of his ugly jaw. come hitherto on the tips of your toes, master christopher."
the parlour door stood open, and within kit saw a scene of such amazing oddity that he did not know whether he watched tragedy or comedy in the doing. the hearth was red with crackling logs. at the far end of the table sat lady ingilby, a cocked pistol lying close to her right hand; seated opposite her was a thick bulk of a man, with a rusty bandage tied round his neck; between them were four candles, burning with a tranquil flame.
"so you come, mr. cromwell, to quarter yourself here?" lady ingilby was saving.
"i do, madam."
"you come alone, knowing we are a house of women and of wounded men? oh, the courage of you! and even our wounded have left us—not one of them so crippled but the news of rupert's coming spurred him on to marston."
"the news of rupert's going will comfort them, maybe," growled cromwell.
"he thrashed you handsomely. oh, we have the news! first, a runner came, telling how lord fairfax and the leader of the ironsides had left the field."
cromwell's quick temper took fire. "you claim a woman's privilege——
"no, my pistol's. we talk as man to man. i say that we have the news. and then a second runner came and told us leslie's scots had won the battle. and we sorrowed, but not as if it had been you who claimed the victory."
the man was dead weary; but her scorn, quiet and assured, roused him. "am i so hated, then, by your side of this quarrel?"
"hated? that is a little word."
"good! any wayside fool can be loved—it takes a man to earn hatred."
"a man of sorts—granted. you will tell me, mr. cromwell, what your purpose was in coming to this house. my husband may be lying dead on marston field. perhaps you came, in courtesy, to distract my grief."
"i came because lord fairfax bade me," said cromwell bluntly. "we have no courtesy in rutland, as you know. mere folly must have bidden me leave my men outside, lest they intruded on you over-roughly."
"how many of them did rupert leave you for a guard?" she was aware of an unexpected courtesy in the man's voice. it seemed no more than smooth hypocrisy.
"a few within call. they are not gentle."
"nor i. as man to man—i stand for the husband who may return or may not—we are here, we two. you have a body of surprising strength, but it is i who hold the pistol. believe me, mr. cromwell, i have learned your proverb well; i trust in providence and keep my powder dry."
christopher, watching them from the dusk of the passage, turned away. it did not seem that lady ingilby needed him. yet he turned for a last glance—saw cromwell's head fall prone on his hands. weariness had captured him at length. the mistress of ripley sat with upright carriage, seeing dream-pictures in the glowing fire of logs; and some were nightmares, but a silver thread ran through them—the knowledge that, whether he lived or lay dead, she had her husband's love.
"she bested him, and proper," chuckled ben waddilove. "when he came in, he looked like a man who might well go to sleep for good and all. we'll hope as much—and i was ever a prayerful man, as men go."
at the turn of the passage, where a lamp was smoking evilly, kit saw a ghost come with unsteady step to meet him—a comely ghost, in white, fleecy draperies, a ghost that carried a sputtering candle. after marston, and the carnage, and the desolate, long journey from the moor to ripley here, christopher was ripe to fancy all beauty an illusion. it was only when he saw the red-brown hair, falling disordered about the whiteness of her gown, that his eyes grew clear.
"so you have come?" asked joan grant. "i did not summon you."
"is that true, joan?"
she would not meet his glance. "why should i summon you?"
"oh, that's for you to know. as we lay in the bean-field—the prince, and father and i—you came and whispered."
"i travelled far, then, and must have galloped home at speed."
old waddilove, who knew his world, moved down the passage noisily. "for my part," he said, talking to himself, and thinking he only murmured, "i allus said like mun wed like, choose what pranks come between. they're fratching already, and that's a good sign. a varry good sign. there was niver two folks fit for wedlock till they've learned how to fratch. it clears their heads o' whimsies."
the draughty passage seemed full of ben's philosophy. they could hear nothing else, except the steady swish of thunder-rain outside. and joan laughed, because she could not help it.
there was no concealment then. laughter opens more doors than the high gravity that lover-folk affect.
"my dear, you know that you came," said kit.
"i know that i lay awake, sick with terror for you. i saw you fighting—oh, so gallantly—saw rupert steal, a broken man, into a field of flowering beans, with only the squire and you to guard him. and then i fell asleep—as if the bean-scent had stifled me, too—and i dreamed——"
"well, joan?"
"that you were hindered, somehow. that you came to great honour and forgot me."
"and that troubled you?" said kit adroitly.
"oh, till i woke! then it seemed to matter little. my heart sits on the top of a high tree, master christopher, as i told you long ago."
all that he had fancied in the gaining seemed lost, all that the suffering and long anxiety of war had taught him. she was dainty, elusive, provocative, just as she had been in yoredale, before her baptism of fire.
"then why were you sick with terror for me?" he asked, as if downrightness served as well with women as with men.
"why? because, perhaps, it is rather cold in the tree-tops, and a heart comes down now and then for a little warmth. i shall bid you good-night, sir. you're in need of rest, i think."
"joan," he said, "i love you very well."
she halted a moment. the light from her candle showed kit a face made up of spring-time in a northern lane. long battle, long abstention from a glimpse of her, brought the old love racing back at flood. and yet it was a new love, deepened and widened by the knowledge gained between the riding out from yoredale and the stark misery of marston moor.
"you will let me go," she said at last. "is it a time for ease of heart, when our men are dead, or dying, or in flight? they have told me how it sped at marston—and, kit, what of the king, when the news goes spurring south to him?"
what of the king? their own needs—for one caress, one taste of happiness amid the rout—went by. their loyalty was not a thing of yesterday; its roots lay thick and thrifty in soil centuries old.
"god forgive me," said christopher. "i had forgotten the king."
