J. S. Fletcher

Of Various Events of Importance which took place during one night, and caused us considerable Uneasiness and other Emotions.

I.

As they began to knock at the door, at first with a certain gentleness, but afterwards in as peremptory a manner as if the king himself had waited without, I turned to my cousin again, and again favoured her with a hard look. She stared at me with a rising indignation in her eyes, but I saw a questioning look in them that nerved me to preserve my stern attitude.

“Mistress,” says I, “the enemy is at our gate, and we must perforce parley with him. There is no one amongst us better fitted to that task than yourself. And so, mistress,” I says, still keeping my eyes on hers, “I must ask you to take your orders from me after this fashion. First——”

But here she broke in upon me, standing very straight, and holding her head very high, and looking me up and down as if I had been some country lout that had dared to address her.

“Master Richard Coope,” says she, “I take no man’s orders, and yours least of all. Your orders!” she says, with fine scorn. “Your orders!”

“Nay, mistress,” says I, “we do but waste time. Do not let us waste more in explanations. You will not only take my orders, but what is more, you will do them. What! will you oppose your girlish whims and fancies to Sir Nicholas’s good estate?”

“Insolent!” says she, her pretty face all aflame. “You to speak—I must be dreaming or going mad,” she says, suddenly.

“Why,” says I, “’tis a pity indeed if you are, cousin, for we have no time to listen to dreams or to deal with mad folk, nor with mutineers either,” says I, putting on my sternest air again, “so come, mistress, let us to business——”

“Prithee, madam,” says old Barbara, “do what Master Richard asks of you, else we shall all be murdered in cold blood. Thank the Lord, say I, that Master Richard should happen in on the nick o’ time,” she says, “a man is a rare comfortable thing to have in a house at times like these.”

But Mistress Alison gives her a cold stare and looks at me. “What is it that you wish, sir?” she says. “Since I am in your power——”

“Nay, cousin,” says I, forgetting all my stern manner in a trice, “it is to serve you that—but come, accompany me and John here to the chamber over the door; I wish you to speak with these men through the window. And believe me,” I says, lowering my voice as she walked at my side, “I am deeply grieved to give you so much trouble, but ’tis necessary for both my uncle’s sake and your own. And so——”

“Nay, sir,” says she. “Spare me fine speeches, I pray you. You have taken the affairs of this house into your own hands, and since I am only a woman you compel me to do what I should not do if I were a man. Pray you insult me not as well as injure me.”

“Oh,” says I, “if you will so mischievously pervert things, mistress, why——”

But we had come to the little casement overlooking the courtyard. In the darkness we could but barely see the men on horseback below us. Three of them remained a little distance away and held the horse of the fourth, the crown of whose hat we perceived outside the porch beneath us. He was knocking at the door, this time very loudly. “Stand back,” says I to John, and drew back myself into the middle of the room. “Now, cousin,” I says, “open the casement, and ask who is there, and demand his business.”

“You must put words into my mouth, then, sir,” says she, fumbling at the latch.

“You have wit enough of your own, cousin,” I answers her. “Use it with your accustomed sharpness, I pray.”

And to that she made no answer, but I could fancy that her eyes flashed in the darkness, and that she bit her lips for pure vexation. However she opened the window and leant out. “Who are you that knock honest folk up at this hour?” she cries. “And what is your business that you bring a troop of men into the courtyard?”

“Ah!” says Anthony Dacre from below. “Cousin, ’tis I—I am glad to find you here—I had feared you might have returned home. Prithee, come down and unbar the door, cousin—I have important news for you.”

“I can hear it quite well here,” says she.

“Why,” says he, “I can’t stand here and bawl it at the top o’ my voice, cousin.”

“My ears are very quick,” she answers. “I daresay I shall hear it if you whisper it.”

“But ’tis of the last importance,” he says, “and besides, I have friends with me.”

“So I perceive,” she says, coolly. “And neither you nor they are coming within the house. So you better tell me your business at once, Master Dacre.”

I heard him smother an oath. “Ah!” says he. “So you are still as vixenish as ever, fair cousin? But we are coming into the house, and so you had best be civil to us while we are without, lest——”

“Spare your threats,” she says scornfully. “I care no more for them than for your civility. And so, if you will not tell me your business I shall shut the window.”

“Oh,” says he. “Pretty treatment indeed! Then let me tell you, mistress, that here are with me certain troopers from Fairfax’s regiment who carry a warrant for Sir Nicholas’s arrest. What do you think to that, eh? Gadzooks, I came here to see that the old knight suffered no hurt or inconvenience, and that yourself was protected, and you treat me like a thief! Come, cousin, ’tis a sad business, but war is a strange matter. You had best open the door at once—these troopers are not used to be kept waiting.”

“Then let them go whence they came,” she says. “They will wait here long enough if they don’t.”

“Then you will not open?” he says, uneasily, and as if he could not believe his ears.

“I said so once,” she answers.

“Why, then,” says he. “I am sorry for you, cousin. I can do naught to help you if you continue in your obstinacy. These troopers will break in upon you, and——”

“Oh,” she says, “a truce to your talk, Master Dacre. Let me say a word to you,” she says. “Now listen; if you and your precious companions dare to lay a finger on door or window of this house we will shoot you for the vermin that you are—and so now we understand each other, Master Anthony Dacre,” says she, and slams the casement in his face.

“Bravo, cousin!” says I. “Bravo! There was no need to give orders—your own——”

“Oh,” says she, “spare your breath, sir. I spoke for myself, not for you.”

“Ah!” says I. “Was it indeed so? Then perhaps, mistress, you will be good enough to show me where those arms are with which you are going to exterminate the vermin in the courtyard? For I doubt not, in spite of all your brave words, that they will attack the house, and in that case we had best be prepared to make good your promise.”

And by that time, being returned to the great kitchen, I called everybody together, men and women, and held a council of war. And first of all we looked to the arms. In the hall there was a sufficiency of muskets and fowling-pieces, ranged in racks, together with numerous pistols, most of which were in bad need of cleaning. It turned out that Jasper and one of the lads had lately cast a quantity of bullets, and that three small kegs of gunpowder had been brought in but the week previous. We were therefore fairly ammunitioned, and I immediately armed every man amongst us with a gun, a powder horn, and twenty bullets, bidding each to shoot so straight, if need arose, that not a shot should be wasted. And this done, I proceeded to take a rapid survey of our position, and to consider how we might best turn it to account.

Now, my uncle’s house was one of those ancient buildings which stand on three sides of a square, and the courtyard was enclosed on all but one side—the north—where it was separated by a high wall and wide gateway from the road. There was a great advantage to us in this, for the only door which opened from the courtyard to the house was that at which Alison had parleyed with Anthony Dacre, and as it stood exactly in the centre of the inner side, it could be commanded from the windows of the other sides of the square. It was a strong door of stout oak, liberally studded with great nails, and secured by as many bolts and chains as there are Sundays in a year, and we now further strengthened it by dragging a great table into the porch and driving it between the door and the wall. This done, there was naught but to post two of my small army in such positions as would command a view of the door from without. Fortunately for us, there were on the ground floor, looking into the courtyard, but two windows, and both of these I instantly secured in such a fashion that nothing but a battering-ram could have broken through them. On the next floor there were more windows, and at two of these, one on each side the courtyard, I stationed Gregory and Jasper, with orders to fire on anyone approaching the door that stood full in their view. These two were favourably placed, for they could keep the wall of the house between themselves and the enemy, and at the same time point their pieces through a broken pane of the windows.

Of the safety of the door which gave access from the courtyard to the house I had little fear; but there were three other doors which caused me some uneasiness. To the front of the house, looking towards Barnsdale and the south, there was a great door which opened into my uncle’s flower-garden; on the right hand, opening out of the room in which he kept his dried herbs, was a smaller one through which he often passed to walk along a sheltered path; on the left-hand, opening out of the scullery, there was a door into the stable-yard. Now Anthony Dacre knew all these doors as well as I did, and would obviously select the weakest for his point of attack. The first thing to do, then, was to strengthen each of them. To this we at once set to work, bringing down great bedsteads, heavy chests, and whatever loose wood we could find in the house, and piling it up in such a fashion that if pressure were brought to bear on it from without, it would but drive our barricades tighter against the stout walls within. But this done, a great difficulty presented itself to my mind—all these doors being flush with the several walls in which they were built how could I place my men where they might command them? I had found that easy in the case of the courtyard door, because two sides of the house overlooked it, but it was impossible as regarded the other three doors, and all I could do was to post men at the corner windows of the second floor with orders to fire on the enemy if they appeared to be approaching the doors with mischievous intent.

Now, as to the windows—I suppose that when they built these old houses (my uncle had often boasted to me that his was erected in the days of I forget which Henry) they had always in their minds the fear of a siege, and so the windows on the ground floor were as few as could well be, and each was supplied with exceeding strong bolts and bars that closed over stout shutters of oak. I saw to it that each was further barricaded and strengthened by the piling up against it of the heaviest furniture in each room—and when that was done there appeared to be no more that we could do towards making the old house stronger than it was. So now I took a survey of my arrangements, and found that they worked after this fashion: Gregory and Jasper were posted at upper windows on each side of the courtyard, commanding the porch-door; John and Humphrey Stirk were at windows looking out into the front garden; the two oldest lads, Peter and Benjamin, were stationed at a window which overlooked the stable-yard; and the third lad, Walter, being very young, I ordered to run from one post to the other, supplying them with ammunition, or bringing them food or drink, as need required. The window overlooking the door which opened into the west garden I reserved to myself, feeling that an occasional surveillance of it would suffice. To Barbara and one of her maids I gave charge of the commissariat arrangements, and bade her stint none of my little army, having previously satisfied myself that there was provender in the house sufficient to last us six weeks. As for my fair cousin I requested her to attend upon Sir Nicholas, and to employ the other maid’s time in the like direction.

And now, all these matters being attended to—and it had taken some little time, I promise you!—and the enemy being still debating matters amongst themselves in the courtyard—I had taken occasional observations of them through the window above the porch—I suddenly turned dead tired and sat me down on the settle in the kitchen, feeling curiously faint and hungry. I had sent an ample ration and a mug of ale to each of my men, but I myself had tasted neither bite nor sup for I know not how many hours. “Alack, Barbara, old lass!” says I, thinking there was nobody but herself and myself in the kitchen, “times are altered since I was last here! If my poor uncle had been on his legs instead of in his bed, I should ha’ been invited to eat and drink—faith, I ha’ touched naught since——”

But at the word Mistress Alison steps out o’ the gloom, and in the glare of the firelight I saw her cheek aflame with the rarest crimson. “I crave your pardon, cousin!” says she—’egad, ’twas the first time she had so styled me since I entered the house—“I have forgotten my duty because of all this trouble. Barbara, see that Master Coope is served—nay,” she says, “I will see to it myself,” and she bustles about, and brings me meat and drink, and sets it with her own fair hands on the table before me. “Cousin,” says I, looking hard at her, “I thank you. I am sorry,” I says, and then stops, not knowing what more, nor what I had meant, to say. “But I thank you,” I says. “Indeed, I am both hungry and thirsty.”

“I am sorry, too,” she says—but she did not look at me, her eyes being fixed on the fire—“I should have invited you to eat.” She stood there, lingering, and still she would not look at me. “I fear,” she says at last, and faith, there was a still brighter crimson in her cheeks, “I fear I have been somewhat hasty—and—and—I thank you for—for what you are doing for Sir Nicholas, cousin Richard,”—and suddenly she turned, and gave me one shamefaced sort o’ look, and fled up the stairs.

Heigh-ho! I believe it was then that I fell in love with thee, my sweet! Lord! what a colour, and what eyes she had!

II.

Being now considerably refreshed, and having reviewed my situation as I sat at meat, with the result that I made up my mind to attend to the business of the moment, and leave all thoughts of the future until such time as they must perforce be settled with, I arose from the table and went the round of my men, whom I found very vigilant and ready to discharge their several duties when need arose. It was then close on midnight and we had been invaded for nearly two hours, but so far, the enemy had remained quiescent, and had not so much as re-demanded our submission. He continued very peaceful, and appeared to have temporarily withdrawn his forces. When I reached the window at which I had posted Gregory, I found that the courtyard was empty, and that all was so still and peaceful, save for the sighing of a somewhat angry wind, that no one would have guessed we were withstanding a siege. But there was naught to reassure us in that.

“What are they after, think you?” says I, as I peered over Gregory’s shoulder into the darkness without. “They seem to have drawn off altogether at this present moment.”

“I warrant me they are not far away,” says he. “They put their heads together and talked awhile after Mistress French had spoken with them out of the window, and then they wheeled about and passed the gate. And it’s my firm opinion, Master Richard,” he says, “that at this moment they’re foddering their horses in our stables, though being appointed to stand here,” he says, “I can’t decide that matter for myself.”

“I’ll go round to the east side o’ the house,” says I, and set off along the corridors to the window at which I had stationed Peter and Benjamin. “Now, lads,” says I, coming up to them, “any signs of the enemy?”

“They’re in the stables, Master Richard,” says Peter. “We watched them come in at the gate from the lane an hour ago. First, there was four came together, and then three more followed after them. And they’ve turned out our horses,” says he, pointing to some dark shapes that stood disconsolate enough in the middle of the stable-yard, “and put their own beasts in the stalls.”

The door of the stable stood opposite the window at which we were watching. It was one of those doors that have two halves, and the upper one they had left open, so that we had an excellent view into the stable. They had lighted the lanthorn that hung from the roof, and I could just see the candle that swealed and sputtered in it. Now and then, one or other of Anthony’s gang passed and repassed the square of light. They were evidently making their cattle comfortable on my uncle’s provender, and the thought of it raised within me a roguish desire, such as a lad might have felt, to spoil their sport. The swinging lanthorn and its glare of yellow light gave me a thought. “Isn’t Master John Stirk a famous hand with his gun?” says I to the lads. “I have surely heard something o’ the sort in bygone times,” I says. “A rare hand, surely,” says Peter. “A’ can hit——”

But I was hurrying along the corridor towards the post at which I had stationed John and Humphrey. I passed near my uncle’s chamber on the way, and from a little distance saw Mistress Alison with her hand on the latch of the door. She bore a bowl of some sick man’s slop or other, and had no eyes for me, so I went on to find the two brothers leaning against the wall by the garden window, and gazing in silence into the gloom outside. “All’s well here,” says John, as I came up. “We heard footsteps on the path once, but ’tis a good hour ago, and they must ha’ withdrawn for awhile.”

“They are in the stables,” says I, “foddering their beasts on Sir Nicholas’s corn, no doubt. And since all’s quiet at present,” I says, “come you with me, John—I lay Humphrey will guard your post for a moment,” and I led him back to where Peter and Benjamin stood staring at the light in the stable. “You are a good marksman, they tell me,” I says. “Can you hit that lanthorn, do you think?”

“Aye,” he says, fingering his musket, “but not so well from here as from below. There’s a little window in the scullery, Master Richard, that I ha’ sometimes made use of to talk with the maids. I could hit it from that.”

“Come on,” I says, and we went downstairs. “We will give these rascals a lesson,” says I, as we turned into the scullery. “Now, John, mark the candle, and out she goes.”

He opened the little window—’twas no more than a pane of dull glass a foot square—and pushed out the barrel of his musket. On the instant the explosion followed, and the light in the stable disappeared. We heard the crash of the lanthorn as it was driven against the wall, and the sudden stamping and kicking of frightened horses.

“’Tis as dark as the grave,” says John, closing the window carefully. “Let ’em feel their way to the corn-bins,” he says, and we turned to go to our several posts again.

However, before we were at the head of the great staircase there came new developments, which rather startled me and gave a different turn to affairs. The silence of the night—which had seemed twice as deep since John Stirk discharged his piece—was suddenly broken by what appeared to be a regular fusilade, and at the same moment a loud crashing of glass and splintering of woodwork gave us notice that at last we were under fire. Close upon their noise followed a shrill scream from the corridor where we had left Peter and Benjamin.

“Somebody’s hit!” says I, and we ran along the passages. Ere we had taken many steps our feet grated on broken glass or kicked against fragments of woodwork. At the corner of the corridor leading to Sir Nicholas’s room stood Mistress Alison, holding a lamp above her head and gazing towards us with anxious looks, “No lights!” roars I. “Go back, cousin—you give them a chance to see us,” and I hurried Peter and Benjamin along the passage into an inner chamber, where we might strike a light without danger. “I’m hit somewhere,” says Peter. “I can feel the blood running.” But it was only a deep scratch that he had got in his cheek, from which the blood ran pretty freely into his neckcloth. “Off you go to Barbara for a clout,” says I, and went back with John and Benjamin to the corridor. The night air was blowing in raw and cold, for all the window was shot away. “It’s a lucky thing we wasn’t in front on’t, Master Richard,” says Benjamin. “They must ha’ fired all their pieces at it.”

There was no great harm done by this first brush, though I was somewhat regretful when I saw the wreck that I had not allowed our enemies to burn their candle unmolested. However, they made no attempt to relight the lanthorn, and as we could see naught of them in the stable-yard, I made Benjamin fetch a great mattress from the nearest sleeping chamber, and with this we blocked up the open casement as well as we could. But we had no sooner got it into place than new matters called for my attention. A door opened suddenly and we heard a scuffle of voices, first Mistress Alison’s, then Sir Nicholas’s, thin, piping, but exceeding angry. “Here’s more to do!” says I, and set off for my uncle’s room, followed by John Stirk. “This,” says I to myself, “will be harder work than fighting,” but I went boldly within the chamber. The old knight, startled, doubtless, by the firing, had got himself out of bed and now sat on the side, furious because my cousin endeavoured to persuade him to return to his pillows.

“What the murrain!” says he. “’Od’s wounds, wench, am I a child to be—’od’s death,” he says, suddenly catching sight o’ me, “nephew Dick, as I live! So we are in the hands of the rebels, Alison? Faith, I never thought to see a nephew o’ mine assault me in my own house!”

“Sir,” says I, “I am here to defend you, and I present you with my very humble duty.”

But something seemed to twitch his poor old face as I spoke, and he fell back on his bed. “Oh,” says my cousin, “leave us, sir, leave us, and send Barbara to me quick!” And so John and I bundled out of the chamber, sore bewildered.

III.

During the remaining hours of that night our enemies gave us no more trouble than the mere observing of their movements. It appeared to me from what I could make out, as I went from one man to another, that they remained in the stable, and were of an uncommon quietness. “Hatching their plans, no doubt,” says I, and was not unthankful that things wore their present complexion. I had no great love of fighting in the dark, and I considered, moreover, that our chances were better in the daytime, when we could use our eyes to some advantage, than in such a night as that when we could scarce see aught at twenty yards’ distance. However, though they made no further motion towards attacking us, I saw to it that a strict watch was kept, and moved from post to post constantly, lest any of my sentinels should forget themselves and fall asleep. So the night passed, and in a somewhat sombre and melancholy fashion, for there was a mournful wind without, and in my uncle’s chamber the old man himself lay grievously sick and in constant need of Mistress Alison’s ministrations.

About six o’clock in the morning, a grey light being then apparent in the eastward heaven above Went Hill, I found John and Humphrey Stirk with their chins resting on their muskets, and their mouths as wide agape as young blackbirds are when the old bird comes home with a worm in her beak. “Ha!” says I. “By your faces, lads, ’tis high time you were relieved. Away with you to the kitchen, and bid Barbara see to food and drink for you while I keep guard. We are ill-mannered, but you shall have an hour’s relief while there’s a chance,” I says, bundling them off, and feeling that it were scurvy behaviour to treat volunteers less considerately. So they thanked me and withdrew, and having been on my legs all night I sat me down near the window and stared at the grey sky outside. “Faith!” says I, yawning, “here’s a pretty state of things that I have come into. Look upon thyself, Dick,” I says, “as a dead man, over whom they have already said ‘Ashes to ashes.’ For thou wilt certainly be shot if thou stayest here, and hanged if thou dost escape. However, there’s no use in repining nor in reflecting. Shot or hanged, what matter a century hence?”

And yet, as I sat there, I could not help but reflect, though I can with great honesty say that I did not repine. I think it must have been my liking for philosophic questionings that made me reflect in the fashion I did, for, in sooth, all my thoughts turned to the curious manner in which one small event or trifling circumstance had led to another, until at last I was landed in a very quagmire of serious result. But there I flew away at another tangent, and began to ask myself whether there is any event or action so trifling or unimportant as not to have any effect on our happiness or misery. Certainly the events of the twenty-four hours then drawing to a close had seemed small in themselves, and were yet productive of results the most serious. If my horse had not fallen dead by the wayside I should not have stayed to think under the trees at Barnsdale, and if I had not stayed there I should not have thought of Reuben Trippett’s farmstead and in due course gone there, and if I had not gone there I should never have heard of Anthony Dacre’s plot, and if I had remained in ignorance of that I should certainly not have been sitting in my uncle’s manor-house that morning waiting for daybreak, and feeling myself already a lost man. “Alas!” I sighs, coming at last to a definite opinion, “’tis most true that no event is so trifling as to be wholly unimportant. There is naught so sure as that one thing leads to another—the mischief is that we never know what that other is going to be.”

I think I had gotten into this state of mind during my patrol of the house during the night. At first my thoughts had perforce been directed to the immediate necessities of the hour; but as things grew quiet, I could not help thinking about my own peculiar predicament. And the more I thought, the more certain was I of the result of my present proceedings. “Thou art a dead man!” says I to myself, shaking my head mournfully. “There is not a shadow of doubt about that. As dead as if old Tobias had turned his first shovelful——”

But at that moment—and it was a truly welcome relief, for I was, indeed, waxing melancholy—the door of my uncle’s chamber opens gently, and out into the corridor steps Mistress Alison. She shut the door behind her with a pretty care, and seeing me in the grey light, came softly in my direction.

“Good morning to you, cousin,” says I, rising from my chair and approaching her. “I trust my uncle is somewhat recovered by this time?”

“He sleeps, sir,” says she, still very formal. “He has had but an ill night, and once I feared he was near to death. But he is now asleep, and I have left Priscilla watching by him for awhile.”

By this time we stood over against the window, and I saw that her face was pale with watching, and that much anxiety was on it. She looked without, and something in the grey skies and dark fields made her shiver and draw the cloak about her shoulders closer together.

“You are weary, cousin,” says I. “Will you not seat yourself in this chair?”

She looked at the chair and at me, but made no offer to take it.

“I was going downstairs,” says she, meditatively, “but——”

“Why,” says I, innocent enough to all outward seeming, “I have dismissed John and Humphrey for a brief rest, and it would not be amiss to have some one here besides myself, so that if there is need, we can give alarm without leaving the post. With the dawn,” says I, “they will no doubt commence operations against us.”

“I will remain in that case,” she answers, and sat her down in the chair that I had just left “We must all do our part to defend the house,” she says, more to herself than to me.

“Aye,” says I.

After that we were for some moments very silent. For my part, I leaned against the wall watching her. After a time she looked at me gravely.

“How long will this continue, think you?” she says. “Will it be for some time, or shall we be relieved speedily?”

“Why,” says I, “I see no prospect of relief, cousin. These fellows will doubtless be reinforced, and they will then make a desperate assault upon us. However,” I says, seeing her grow pale at the thought, “we will hold out as long as we can, and we will do our best to contrive some way of escape for you and Sir Nicholas. Faith!” I says, “I don’t see how it’s to be done, seeing that we are hemmed in; but I’ll talk it over with John and Humphrey—the three of us may contrive something. As for myself,” I says, dolefully, my thoughts going back in their original direction, “I am a dead man already, and so naught that concerns myself matters.”

“A dead man?” she says, staring at me. “What do you mean by applying such a term to yourself?”

“Why,” says I, “I mean what I say. You see, cousin, I was sent north with a despatch from Cromwell to Fairfax, and——”

“Sir,” she says, suddenly clothing herself with a great dignity; “I should prefer to know naught of your rene——” But there she checked herself. “I think you are loyally serving my uncle,” she says, “and myself,” she adds, after a pause; “and I—I thank you for it, Master Coope; but——”

“But I am still a renegade, eh, cousin?” says I, bitterly. “Why, so I am, I daresay, in your eyes. But, egad! a bit o’ sympathy comes amiss to no man; and if one may not expect it from a relation—but I’ll not intrude my confidence upon you,” I says, and I swung round on my musket, and looked out of the window. I think her eyes must have followed me, for after a moment she spoke, and when I turned she was looking at me with some curiosity and concern.

“If you put it in that way,” she says, meditatively, and she looked at me again. “I should be sorry to appear unkind to—to anyone who had done me a service,” she says slowly.

“Oh, no thanks, cousin!” says I. “I should have done the same for any woman. Faith, you did not think that I came here to save you from insult because you happened to be my mother’s sister’s daughter?”

Now, beshrew me if I did not see her catch her pretty lips together between her teeth as if in a sudden vexation!

“I am aware that I am naught to Master Richard Coope,” she says, cold and icy.

“I should have done it for any woman,” says I. “So no thanks, if you please, mistress.”

And I looked out of the window again. The dawn was come by that time, and the east was covered with a broad belt of dun-coloured light. When I looked round again I could see her face quite plainly under the hood of her cloak.

“But this danger of yours?” she says, looking at me and then away from me. “I think I—perhaps it might be well—will you tell me what it is?” she says, turning her eyes full on mine again.

“Why,” says I, “’tis just this, cousin. I bear a despatch from Cromwell to Fairfax—here it is, stitched in my doublet. I should have delivered it last night, and because I have not done so, I shall certainly be hanged if Fairfax or Cromwell get hold of me. ’Tis a most grave dereliction of duty that cannot be pardoned. I shall most certainly die for it. So that you see, between being shot here and hanged before Fairfax’s tent door, I have a pretty choice; and faith!” I says, “it causes me some concern, for I am not tired of life, I assure you.”

“And if you had not heard of our danger, you would have delivered your despatch last night?” she says.

“Why,” I says, “I was horseless; but I should have made shift into camp somehow.”

“And did you reflect?” she says, rising from her chair and standing before me, “upon what the consequences would be if you came here to warn us instead of going forward with your despatch? You knew that it was a question of our safety against your own——?”

But what else she meant to say—and I scarce knew what she was anxious to get at—I had no opportunity of learning, for at that moment there rang out a discharge of musketry from the fold, answered by the shots from the corridor where Peter and Benjamin were stationed. “That’s a beginning,” says I, and ran off, leaving her there without further ceremony.

IV.

I found Peter and Benjamin reloading their pieces near the window which we had barricaded a few hours previously, and immediately called on them for news of what had happened. It appeared that as daylight came they had watched the stable door jealously, and at last had counted six of our assailants emerge from it with their muskets. They had gazed up at the window which they had already shattered, and evidently catching sight of the lads’ faces—for we had left spaces through which we might observe whatever went on without—they had discharged their pieces at it. Peter and Benjamin had discharged theirs in return as their assailants crowded back within the stable door, but they were doubtful as to whether they had hit any of them, though Peter thought he had seen one man clap his hand to his side as he hurried into shelter.

“But they were in and out again like a lot o’ rabbits on a sand burrow,” says Benjamin. “You saw their fronts and backs within a minute.”

“Poor sort of fighting,” says I, and bidding them stand to the post, I went to find John and Humphrey.

It was by that time broad daylight, and I therefore thought it well to go round the house and see how matters stood with us. I found all my men at their posts, some of them a little sleepy with their long vigil, but all keen enough to resent the enemy whenever he thought fit to attack us. I contrived that every man should be relieved in turn, and sent those thus discharged from duty to the kitchen, where Barbara saw to their needs. I satisfied myself that all our defences were in good order, and that there was little chance of the besiegers breaking in upon us at any of the weaker spots in our armour. In fact it seemed to me, after going round the house for the second time, that unless some extraordinary measures were adopted against us, there was no reason why we should not hold our own against a whole troop as long as our provisions lasted.

I was engaged with John Stirk in further strengthening the defence of the window that opened into the herb-garden, when Peter came to tell me that a man was waving a flag from the stable door. “A flag of truce,” says I, and hurried away to observe this new action. I then saw that the enemy had tied a clout to the shaft of a fork, and were waving it over the half-door of the stable, with an evident desire to provoke our attention. “We’ll play the game fairly,” says I, and hastily improvised a flag, which I bade Peter thrust out of the window while I went to find Mistress Alison. “They desire a parley,” says I, “you must play spokeswoman again, if you please, cousin.”

“I had rather do aught than bandy words with Anthony Dacre,” says she, following me unwillingly. “Put the words into my mouth, if you please, Master Richard.”

However, there was no need for her fears on this occasion, for instead of Anthony Dacre there appeared one of the troopers in answer to our signal. He came across the fold, carrying his flag of truce in his right hand, and looking somewhat quizzically at the barricaded window. “A queer fellow this,” says I, observing him closely. “We should have some sport with him.”

Mistress Alison looked at me with a little flash in her eyes. “Sport!” she says, and seemed as if she would have said more. But the man had by that time come close beneath the window, and stood looking up at it. He was a tall, gaunt fellow, with as long a face as ever I saw, and a mouth that seemed to twist itself naturally to the pronouncing of long words.

“Within there!” say he. “Ye that do suffer investment, and are as captives in the beleaguered city—does anybody hear me or not?”

“I hear you, sir,” says Mistress Alison, putting her face to the opening which we had contrived. “What is your wish?”

“Why, mistress,” says he, trying to catch a glimpse of her, “as for wishes they are casual things, and I have long eschewed them. I wish naught save to accomplish my duty——”

“I have no time to stand here chattering,” says Mistress Alison. “Come, your errand!”

“I come as a messenger of peace,” says the fellow. “Know, maiden, that my name it is Merciful Wiggleskirk, and that my nature is no less merciful than my name. I am a man of war, and yet my soul hankers exceedingly after peace——”

“Am I to stand listening to this babbler all day?” says my cousin to the rest of us. “Come, fellow!” she says sharply. “What is it that you want?”

“I desire your surrender, mistress,” says he. “There are some of us”—he cocked his eye in the direction of the stable—“that do carnally desire the sight and smell of blood, which are matters that I cannot abide. Therefore, I come, merciful as my name, to bid you yield yourselves in the interest of peace. Let there be peace between us, I pray you,” he says, rolling his eyes towards the window.

“Is that all you have to say, fellow?” asks my cousin.

“Verily, I have spoken, maiden,” says he.

“Then,” she says, “you can go back and say that there will be much blood—yea, enough to turn your squeamish stomach sick, Master Merciful Wiggleskirk, unless you and your fellow rascals depart on the instant. What! you come like thieves and robbers, and then insult us with your offers of mercy—oh!” she says, “get you within shelter, lest we fire upon you.”

“Peace, peace!” he says. “Peace, mistress. Woe in me that I should——”

“Get your musket in order, Peter,” says she in a loud voice. Whereupon the long-faced man uttered a deep groan and hastened back to the stable, holding his flag above his head. Mistress Alison turned away without a word, and I was following her when John Stirk stopped me.

“Master Dick,” says he, “there’s a thought strikes me that’s worth meditating upon. They’re all in the stable now, and there is but one door through which they can come, and this window commands it. Why should they be allowed to come through that door, Master Dick? Why,” says he, “shouldn’t they have a taste of besiegement?”

“Faith!” says I, “a rare notion, John. Why did it not strike me before? However——”

“Humphrey and me,” says he, “posted at this, window will stop any of them from coming through yonder door.”

“And so you shall,” I says, and gave the necessary orders, transferring Peter and Benjamin from the window where we stood to John and Humphrey’s old post over the garden door. And since we now knew with certainty where all our enemies lay concealed, I withdrew Gregory and Jasper from the courtyard windows and bade them take the rest of which, being oldish men, they were somewhat sore in need. This done, I went back to John and Humphrey, and waited the next move of the game.

Now, after Merciful Wiggleskirk had returned to the stable there was for some time no sign of any action on the part of the enemy, both halves of the door being shut to behind him. But at the end of an hour, the upper half was swung open, and Jack Bargery’s head and shoulders appeared. He was evidently in dispute with those inside, for he appeared to be talking in a loud voice, and shook his head fiercely as he fumbled at the latch of the lower half of the door. “There would be little loss to anybody if a bullet found its billet in his ugly carcase,” says I. “Fire, Humphrey.”

“With good will,” says he, and pulled the trigger.

The fellow at the stable door staggered and clapped his hand to his shoulder. “Three inches too high,” says Humphrey musingly, and began to reload his piece. “First blood to us, anyway,” says John, “and ’twill read them a lesson.” And so it did, for none of them showed so much as a nose-end at the stable door for the next six hours. Instead of being bottled ourselves we had bottled them fairly. And yet, as I knew quite well, we were enjoying but a temporary respite, for naught could be easier when the darkness came on, than for one of them to slip away to Pomfret and bring assistance from Fairfax’s camp. I marvelled more than once that they had not done this the previous night, but I suppose Anthony Dacre had considered that matters would go better for him if he conducted his operations with a small posse instead of a large one, the command of which would doubtless have been in other hands than his.

The day wore on in quietness, John and Humphrey keeping a sharp watch on the stable door. From the time that Jack Bargery had dropped back with a bullet in his shoulder until late in the afternoon there was no sign of our assailants. But as it grew dark, the top half of the door was thrown open again and the flag once more thrust out. I was on guard at the moment, the brothers being gone to the kitchen for a bite and sup, and I immediately despatched a messenger for Alison while I waved our own flag through the window. It was Merciful Wiggleskirk who once more appeared, and he came across the ford as Alison answered my summons.

“I fear I must trouble you again, cousin,” says I. “’Tis another flag of truce. Will you make inquiry of the messenger as to its meaning?”

She frowned as she put her face to the opening. “Well, fellow?” says she. “You are come again, eh?”

“On a merciful errand, mistress,” he answered. “In truth, we are at war, but should our enmity extend to the very animals? I pray you, mistress, to call a truce while we lead our horses across the ford to drink at the trough. The poor beasts do thirst exceeding sore—yea, even as the hart desireth——”

“No blasphemies, fellow,” says she, and turns to me inquiringly. “What shall I say?” she asks.

“No,” I says. “’Tis but a trick that they may get out of the stable. Once under cover of the house wall they may go where they please untouched. In their present position we have them safe so long as daylight lasts.”

“Yes,” she says, meditatively. “Yes—but—there’s a notion struck me,” she says, looking at me with a queer expression in her eyes. “Your danger, Master Richard—I think I see a way out of it. Would there be any harm if we allowed this man to water his horses, one at a time, on condition that none of his fellows leave the stable?”

“No great harm in that,” I says, not quite seeing what she aimed at, but having some faith in her woman’s wit; “but assure him that if any of the others leave the stable they will be shot.”

She turned to the window. “Listen, fellow,” says she. “You may bring out the horses yourself, one at a time, and water them at the trough, but if one of your companions shows his face we shall shoot him.”

“Agreed, mistress,” says he. “’Tis for the poor animals.”

“And hark ye,” she said, “there is a little window near the trough—place yourself near it when you come with the horses—I have something to say to you.”

I saw the man’s face light up with a greedy look, as if he saw some prospect of gain to himself. “I understand, mistress,” says he, and hurried off to the stable, while Alison turned to me again.

“I don’t comprehend your meaning, cousin,” I says. “What is your notion?”

“That you should bribe this trooper to carry your despatch forward to Fairfax,” says she. “It will but be a day late—and you can explain the cause of delay—and—and—it may be the saving of your own neck, Master Richard,” she says.

I stood very still looking at her. “Hah!” says I, at last. “So you’ve been thinking of that, cousin. Why, that’s kind——”

“Nay,” she says, with a heightened colour, and her eyes that had wandered away coming back to me, “let us have no misunderstandings, pray! I could ill bear the thought,” she says, “that any man should come to his death through rendering me a service. And so if you think it a wise plan——”

“I’ll try it,” says I, and made haste to summon John and Humphrey back to their posts. “If any man leaves the stable door except Wiggleskirk,” I says, “shoot him on the instant,” and with that I ran down to the little window that opened on the fold just against the great horse-trough. As I waited there for Wiggleskirk, I cut the stitches that secured the despatch to my doublet. Then I bethought me that it might be well to write some explanation of my conduct, so I hurried to the kitchen and found pen and ink and hastily wrote a few lines on the back of the paper. “The bearer of these,” I wrote, “delayed by untoward circumstances, sends them forward by the only available opportunity.” “That’s all that’s possible,” says I, and went back to the window.

Wiggleskirk was there, keeping the horse and the pump between him and the stable. When he caught sight of my face, he started. “Hist!” says I, “come closer, but make no sound. Hark ye, lad, art willing to carry something to Fairfax at Pomfret for a handful of gold pieces?”

“To Fairfax?” he says, with some suspicion. “And what may it be, master?”

“A despatch from General Cromwell,” says I, “that should have been delivered last night if I had not been surrounded in this fashion.”

“From Cromwell to Fairfax?” says he, his mouth agape. “Why, that’s very serious matters, master. A handful of gold, did you say? But what shall I tell——”

“There’s naught to tell,” says I. “Here’s the despatch, and there’s the money. Now, will you take it, saying naught to your companions out there, and asking no questions?”

He looked at the packet, and then at the handful of gold that I had laid on the window-sill. “Agreed!” says he. He looked curiously into my face. “As soon as it’s dark,” he says. “Rely on me—though ’faith, I don’t understand——”

“There’s no need that you should,” says I, and shuts the window in his face. I gave a sigh of relief as I drew the bolts to—I had, at any rate, thanks to Alison, done something to rid myself of the despatch and to secure its delivery.