Collected works of j s f.., p.94
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 94
“So you prefer books to swords, Master Richard?” says she.
“Did I say so?” says I.
And for very love of sport I laughed mockingly. She drew herself up to her full height — egad! I had never seen aught so taking! — and her pretty mouth curled itself, while the rich colour flushed over her dark cheek.
“Good-day to you, Master Poltroon!” says she.
“Good-day to you, Mistress Spitfire!” says I.
And with mutual consent we turned our backs on one another. But I laughed long and loud as I trotted away to keep my tryst.
CHAPTER II
Of my Meeting with my Kinsman, Anthony Dacre, at the Wayside Inn — of my Further Adventures, my Disinheritance by Sir Nicholas, and my Doings with the Parliamentarians — and of my Employment on an Important Mission by General Oliver Cromwell.
I.
It was but little beyond noon when I turned out of Francis French’s park into the highroad, and I suddenly bethought myself that if I went immediately to the trysting place I should be as like as not to cool my heels there for some time ere Matthew Richardson joined me. His message had required me to meet him within twenty-four hours, and of the twenty-four there were still some seven or eight to run. “Faith!” says I to myself, “he might have been more explicit — does he expect me to sit by the wayside like a tinker who puts his mare in the hedge-bottom to graze for her supper?” And I went on somewhat out of humour, and that not altogether because of Matthew’s thoughtlessness. To tell truth, Mistress Alison’s last words, though I had laughed at them, had stung me rather sharply and roused a certain anger in me. Now that I was out of her presence I felt her scorn more than while I sat watching her. “So I am to be flouted by every chit of a lass, am I?” says I, with some bitterness. But on the instant my humour changed, and I fell to laughter again at the thought of her looks when I paid her back in her own coin. “What care I?” says I, shaking my bridle reins. “Here’s for whatever comes next,” and so I cantered forward.
At the joining of the roads against Hickleton, I came to a wayside inn of so inviting a sort that I involuntarily pulled up my beast and asked myself whether it were not some time since breakfast. I then discovered that I was prodigiously hungry, and so made no more ado, but rode into the yard and handed over my horse to the hostler, bidding him take good care of it, as it was my sole dependence for a long journey. The fellow looked at it somewhat curiously.
“I could swear, master,” says he, “that this is of old Sir Nicholas Coope’s breeding — we have its marrow in yonder stable at this moment— ’tis a mare that Master Dacre of Foxclough rides — I never saw two beasts more alike.”
“Aye?” says I. “Why, truly, thou hast a rare eye, lad — but what is Master Dacre’s mare doing in your stable?”
“Master Dacre’s within,” says he, nodding his head towards the inn.
“Oh!” says I, and stands staring at the door, somewhat nonplussed. I had not expected to meet any of my kinsfolk just then and scarce relished the notion. “Come,” says I to myself, “what signifies Anthony Dacre? — we’re as near strangers as may be,” and I once more bade the man see to my horse, and walked into the house.
They seemed somewhat quiet inside — there were but two or three men drinking in the kitchen, and the landlord leaned idly against the corner of the settle, his hands tucked under the wide apron that covered his capacious paunch. At sight of me he started into activity. My eyes cast about them in search of Anthony — the landlord noted it, and thought I looked for a place worthy of my condition. “If your honour will but step into the parlour,” says he, and flings the door open before me. So I slips in, and there sat Anthony Dacre with a jug of ripe ale before him and some trifle of food such as a wayside inn affords to chance comers. He gave me a glance as I stepped within the room, and I saw that he did not recognise me, which was naught to be surprised at for we had not met those seven years. For a moment, then, I stood staring at him, half doubtful whether to make myself known, or to go on my way without recognising him. Faith! I have since wondered many’s the time indeed, whether much of what followed might not have been prevented if I had turned on my heel and left Anthony to refresh himself in peace.
Now this man Anthony — at that time my senior by some three years, and as proper a looking man as you might desire to set eyes on — was the son of old Stephen Dacre of Foxclough House, that was related to Sir Nicholas Coope by his marriage with Mistress Dorothy, the old knight’s youngest sister. As for old Stephen and his wife they were both dead, and all that they had, which was but little, now lay in Master Anthony’s hands. A poor parcel of land it was, that manor of Foxclough, the soil being stony in one place and marshy in another, and old Stephen had done naught to improve it, but had rather drained its feeble resources in order to keep up his roystering habits, much to the grief and perturbation of Sir Nicholas, who was given to frugality, though hospitable as a gentleman should be. Thus Master Anthony had but little to live and keep up his small state upon, and since he was well minded to do as his father and grandfather had done before him and live as royally as might be, there was naught for him but to curse his fate and sharpen up his wits to his own betterment. And so far as his own wits were concerned he saw no better chance, I suppose, of improving his condition than by courting the society of Sir Nicholas, and seeking to ingratiate himself in the old knight’s favour. Thus it was that when we were lads together Anthony was constantly at the Manor House, and made himself rival to me (though indeed I knew naught of it at the time, being young and unlearned in such matters), in my uncle’s affections. But there was something occurred between them — I never knew what it was — which alienated them, or, rather, which caused Sir Nicholas to look with disfavour upon Anthony, and after that the latter never came to the Manor House that I knew of, nor did my uncle ever speak of him except to say now and then that Anthony was a real Dacre, and would be a scapegrace and roysterer all the days of his life.
Until I met Anthony at the inn I had not heard of him for some two years. It was said that he had gone to the wars, and that Foxclough — which was a half-ruined barn of a house when old Stephen died — was closed. Then it was thought that he was dead, or had gone across seas in search of treasure. Certainly, it had never mattered a straw to me whether he was dead or alive, here or there. I knew naught of his secret desires for Sir Nicholas’s land and money, and it would have made no difference to me if I had known of them. But since he was a kinsman, and we had been lads together — at which time, I, as the younger, had somewhat admired him — I made up my mind to speak to him now that we had met accidentally.
“You have forgotten me, Master Anthony,” says I, standing before him at the table while the landlord lingered at the door waiting for my commands.
He paused in the act of lifting his cup to his lips, and stared at me.
“Why—” says he, “I am somewhat — is it Dick Coope?” he says, half-recognising me. “Lord! I did not know thee, Dick.”
He stretched out his hand across the table. “Sit down, lad,” says he. “We will drink a cup together — let me recommend this ale to thee. But perchance thou wouldst like a flask of — —”
“Ale for me,” says I, “It’s all I am like to get for awhile, and maybe more than I shall get.”
“Oh!” says he, and looks at me curiously. “Aye? Well, every man knows his situation best, Dick. Let me see, ’tis some time since we set eyes on each other, I think.”
“Some seven or eight years, I should think,” says I, sitting down before him at the table.
“Aye, it must be all that,” says he. “And how goes the old knight, my worshipful uncle — od’s zounds, he and I had a sore difference the last time we met, Dick. But you’ll know all there is to know of that, no doubt.”
“Nay,” says I, “I don’t — Sir Nicholas can be as close as any man when he likes.”
“I should ha’ thought he’d have had no secrets from thee,” says he. “Art a lucky man, Dick, to be heir to so snug a little property, and I lay the old knight has a nice warm sum put away in some old stocking. As for me,” he says, spreading out his hands, “here I sit, as needy a poor devil as any scare-crow in a road-side field.”
Now I know not what it was that moved me to it, but there was something in me that morning which prompted me to say all that I thought, whether it were wise to say it or not. It may be that my parting with Sir Nicholas, and that last stinging epithet bestowed upon me by Mistress Alison, had disposed me to seek consolation from the first person I met; certain it is, that sitting there with Anthony Dacre, who was well-nigh a stranger to me, I had no more sense than to tell him all that was in my mind.
“Aye,” says he again, “as needy as any scare-crow, Dick, and maybe needier, seeing that he wants naught, and I want all.”
“Why?” says I, “I don’t know that you’re alone there, Anthony. Your estate — —”
“A patch of stones and bog,” grumbles he.
“It will feed something,” says I.
“A score miserable cattle,” says he.
“Why,” says I, “but that’s something. Now here I am with naught.”
He looked across the table at me in a sudden surprise, and if I had kept my wits about me, I should have noticed his quick curious glance.
“Hast never quarrelled with Sir Nicholas!” says he. “Gadzooks, I thought thou wert — well, well,” he says, laughing, “then I am not the only one of his relations to disagree with the old knight, it seems. But what has parted you, Dick? — I understood you were a sort of young Sir Nicholas already.”
“’Tis a political difference,” says I, like the fool that I was.
“Hah!” says he. “I can well believe it in these times. And for which side art thou, Dick? — hark thee,” he says, bending across the table to me, “I’m not afraid to tell thee, lad, that my sympathies are all with the Parliament. ‘Sdeath, I have been considering this last week or so whether I won’t join with them— ’tis a gentlemanly occupation, that of arms.”
“’Tis what I am about to adopt,” says I.
“I trust on the right side,” says he.
“I am for the Parliament,” says I, stoutly.
“Aye, and Sir Nicholas is a staunch King and Church man,” he says. “Well, well — so you differed on that point, eh?”
“Something like it,” says I. “He would have had me go into garrison at Pomfret Castle under Sir Jarvis Cutler.”
“A man must never give up his principles,” says he. “You stood by yours, of course, Dick?”
“As you see,” says I, feeling somewhat important, and being foolishly willing to parade it.
“I fear the old knight will disinherit thee, Dick,” says he, regarding me closely. “Even as he did me some seven years ago because I dared to contradict him on some trifling matter. ’Tis a touchy old cock, and can ill bide opposition from any man.”
“Faith,” says I, “Can he bide it from a woman? He is like to have it in plenty if I know aught,” I says, the memory of my little scene with Mistress Alison still fresh in my mind.
“Oh!” says he. “Is he so? And how may that be, Dick?”
“He has sent for Alison French,” says I, draining my cup.
“Our cousin Alison, eh?” says he, still curious. “Aye, he had always a tender spot in his heart for the lass.”
“Will he preserve it?” says I. “She has the sharpest tongue that e’er I heard.”
He looked at me with interest. “I ha’nt seen her this two year,” says he. “She bade fair to be a fine woman.”
“Fine enough,” says I. “But preserve me from her tongue— ’tis keen as a newly-whetted sword.”
“You seem to bear some lively recollection on’t,” says he, looking at me with amusement. “Well, well — I seem to have come home to some strange news. But thou art not off, man — sit out another jug of ale with me.”
“I must be gone,” says I. “I am riding south.”
“And I am for my old ruin of a house,” he answers. “I have not set eyes on’t this two year, Dick. I must see to it, I doubt — and then for the wars.”
“Belike we shall meet there,” says I, and shakes him by the hand and goes out to my horse. As I rode away from the inn I saw him come to the door and gaze after me. He threw me a wave of his hand as I turned the corner.
II.
Still in a sore discontent with myself and my recent doings, I jogged forward through Hickleton and Sprotborough to Warmsworth, and coming to the trysting-place about four o’clock of the afternoon, sat me down by the roadside and waited until such time as my friend Matthew Richardson should make his appearance. As for my horse, I tied him up to the mile post and bade him crop the grass within reach to his heart’s content “Yes,” says I, “eat while thou canst, poor beast — God only knows what cheer we shall have in the days that are coming!” By which you may perceive that I had no great joy at the prospect before me. Now this may seem strange, and yet ’twas not strange, for, as I have told you before, I had never much inclination for such an active life as a soldier must needs live, and still less for the privations that fighting men are necessarily put to. But having put my hand to the plough — by which I mean, having sworn to embrace, and if need be, to fight for the popular cause — I was bound in honour not to look back. And surely my sympathies were all in favour of the cause I had espoused — it was but a natural sluggishness that made me hanker after peaceful pursuits at a time when most men were furbishing up their old weapons with uncommon zeal.
About five o’clock came Matthew Richardson, mounted on a good horse, and full of enthusiasm and fervour. He greeted me with warmth, but was somewhat taken aback on perceiving that I was not armed.
“Why, what?” says he, staring at me. “Is it thus you ride to war, friend Richard? Where be thy accoutrements, thy armour, thy greaves, thy sword and spear — —”
“You forget,” says I, “that I am escaped from a house where every weapon is sacred to the cause of the King’s Majesty. ’Tis a marvel that I have come hither at all.”
“Ah!” says he, “I forgot, ’tis true, that your uncle is a staunch Royalist. Well, but we must arm thee, Richard, at the first opportunity. I have friends in Derbyshire,” he says, musingly, “that will fit thee out, I think. So now to horse and let us onward.”
“Whither away first?” says I.
“To Northampton, lad. ’Tis there that Essex is gathering the army in which lies all the hope of England. A brave array it is,” he says, “judging by all that I hear.”
“I have heard naught of it,” says I, as we jogged along. “Until last night I did not even know that war had broken out.”
“You are welcome to such news as I have,” says he, and for the next hour he entertained me with information about the doings of the Parliamentarians. The Earl of Essex, it seemed, had been named general-in-chief and had appointed various officers to serve under him, amongst whom were Kimbolton, Stamford, Holles, Hampden, Cholmley, and Wharton. Lord Bedford was general of the cavalry, and had under his command some five thousand men, captained by lords and commoners, of whom Cromwell was one and Ireton another. “Three and twenty thousand men, horse and foot, there are,” says Matthew. “Truly, the oppressor hath need to quail and quake before them!”
“’Tis certainly a goodly array to hear of,” says I.
“Yes,” says he, with enthusiasm, “and ’tis representative of the will of the people, Dick. Shouldst hear all that I have heard of the sacrifices that have been made! High and low, rich and poor — faith, lad! I had not thought that the popular cause had so many friends. But yesterday comes Geoffery Scales — thou knowest Geoff? — he will meet us at Mansfield on our way — and tells me that when he was in London t’other week, there was the wildest enthusiasm for the Parliament. Why, there has been plate of gold and silver sent in for melting, and women of fashion have given their gew-gaws, and the poorer sort their rings and little ornaments — praise be to God!” he says, with a sudden fervour. “It rejoiceth my soul exceedingly to perceive so vigorous a feeling in favour of liberty.”
“Why,” says I, “but is there not an equal feeling on t’other side, Matthew? It seems to me,” says I, “that for every ounce of enthusiasm on our side the Royalists can show another, and maybe more, on theirs.”
“Thou art come out of a Royalist hot-bed,” he says, not over well pleased. “I trust they have not shaken thy faith at all, Richard?”
“Marry, no,” I says. “I daresay ’tis strong as thine, lad, though I do not show it in just thy fashion. Thou art a dreamer, a visionary, a man of fine and airy spirit, friend Matthew, and thou dost see far into the future, whereas I am slow as an ox at thought, and mighty sluggish into the bargain. Howbeit, I will strike as many blows as you like for the good cause.”
“Yes,” says he, his eyes kindling, “and what a cause it is! Thou callest me a visionary, Dick — why man, ’tis true I have seen the rarest things in my dreams of what this nation may be, once freed from the ancient oppression.”
“Aye, and what shall she be, Matthew?” says I. “That is, if our side wins?”
“If our side wins?” he says angrily, turning hastily upon me. “If our side wins! Why, man, we are bound to win — wherever yet in the world’s history was there a popular cause that was not successful in the end? But to thy question — why, Dick, we shall set aside the tyrant and all his unholy crew, and after that we shall govern the nation in justice and righteousness and there will be abiding peace in the land.”
“The Lord grant it!” says I, with a sigh. “Faith!— ’tis precisely what I desire. Let us press on, Matthew, and hasten its coming.”
So we went forward, joined by one or other of our fellows at various places along the road. Some of them were enthusiasts like Matthew Richardson, who believed that they had a heaven-sent mission to bring about the millennium by resort to arms, others were like myself, in full sympathy with the wrongs of the nation, who had come to the sorrowful conclusion that naught but war would settle matters, and had therefore resolved to join the Parliamentary forces. Five-and-twenty of us there were altogether, all students of the ancient University of Oxford, who rode into Northampton under Matthew Richardson’s command to take service under Essex, every man bringing his own horse and his own gear, and each resolved to do his best for the cause.
