Читать книгу The Honourable Jim - Baroness Emmuska Orczy - Страница 18

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The man who had vowed that Squire Brent was not at the “Wheatsheaf” ready to receive his daughter proved to be correct. The King himself had put up at the inn, and it was crowded from attic to cellar with his retinue: every room, including the public one, was filled to overflowing with gentlemen or lacqueys, and Squire Brent, who was known to be at Fawsley with the King, had given no orders for the accommodation of Mistress Barbara. No doubt that he did not expect her until the morrow and had put off making arrangements for her comfort until then. But such a situation was an impossible one. Mistress Barbara, as Mister Hezekiah Dowdsley, the host, was at once made to see, could not be expected to seek shelter in an inferior tavern, nor could she be asked to spend the night in the public room in company with roisterers—even though these be gentlemen of quality.

Master Hezekiah promised that before night a room should be got ready for the lady and her waiting maid; as for her lacqueys they must of necessity seek the shelter of stables or outhouses until the morrow, when of a certainty the “Wheatsheaf” would be cleared of all save the most important guests and their train.

In the meanwhile Barbara had perforce to be content with a secluded nook in the window embrasure of the eating-room, where she could sit in peace. She had found her progress through that room a very unpleasant one, for it was crowded in every corner with young officers of the King’s army, supping, drinking, card-playing and dice-throwing, whilst the fumes of cooked meats and spiced ales rendered the atmosphere well-nigh unendurable. Escorted by the now obsequious host, Barbara passed between the crowded tables with as much unconcern as she could muster, but she could not altogether close her ears to the chorus of admiration which accompanied her passage. One or two of the young cavaliers there knew her by name or by sight; they took advantage of this slight acquaintance to rise and pay her their personal respects: indeed most of the men rose as she passed by, for Mistress Barbara Brent was one of the most beautiful women of her time, and hers was a personality that commanded attention by reason of a certain halo of aloofness and mystery about her which is often the attribute of women whose childhood has been passed chiefly in the company of men. Barbara, the child-wife, separated from her husband and from her own kith and kin, had, despite the kindness which Squire Brent had lavished upon her, been forced to seek her little joys and gaieties within herself; during the whole period of her budding womanhood she had been thrown on her own resources for guidance as well as for happiness. She was only seventeen when the clash of arms between her kindred and her friends turned her suddenly from a girl into a woman: she had been little more than a child and already she saw around her the passions of men let loose, she had looked on hatred, even crime, at a time when most girls see only pleasure and love. And she had, as it were, learnt to withdraw her soul from the turmoil, to live her own life, cherish her own thoughts and her own ideals in the way that, as a child, she had learnt to play her own little games and live her own little life in the midst of the bustle and activities attendant on the great establishment of Stoke Lark. And this remoteness, this habitual introspection, had stamped her beauty with spirituality, a spirituality that was all the more alluring because she was so very much a woman, tall, full-bosomed, with hair that had in it something of the colour of ripe corn when the setting sun touches it with gold, a mouth that called for a kiss, and eyes that both challenged and refused.

To every bold greeting she gave courteous response, bestowing a smile or a glance as she passed. But she was thankful when she reached the solitude of the window-nook where presently Mistress Dowdsley herself served her with supper, her waiting woman being equally well looked after in the kitchen. Mine host had himself drawn a tall screen across the embrasure which effectually cut it off from the rest of the room whilst the high backs of the oak settles on either side of a centre table completed the appearance of a private room entirely screened from view. The food was excellent and the wine beyond praise. Barbara ate with healthy appetite, after which, feeling drowsy, she curled herself up in the angle of the tall bench against a soft, velvet cushion which Mistress Dowdsley, with motherly thoughtfulness, had put behind her back. The sun had long since sunk down in the west and the shades of evening were fast gathering in. Through the open latticed window overhead a gentle evening breeze came softly blowing in, stirring the muslin curtains upon the window till they seemed like white wings of giant fairy birds, lulling the dreamer to sleep. In the eating room some one was lighting lamps and bringing in candles, for quaint, fantastic shadows came and went upon the white-washed ceiling. The noise and hubbub had nowise abated, the clatter of dishes and mugs was incessant, the rattle of dice, the shouting and laughing and singing and calls for mine host or the waiting wenches. But gradually all those sounds lost their individuality; to Barbara’s ears they all became merged together till they were more like the rumble of sea waves on a pebbly shore, heard from afar. The lights from the room failed to reach this comfortable recess and she felt secure from intrusion, in that her presence was apparently forgotten.

She was left in perfect isolation, in perfect peace and in total darkness.

And soon she fell asleep.

How long she remained in complete unconsciousness she did not know. But presently, when she was half-awake and her eyes were still closed, something reached her perceptions. At first she did not know what that something was; in fact it took her some time to realise whether she was awake or asleep and to remember the events of the day, her journey, the crowded streets, the nook where she had found refuge. She opened her eyes, however, and without moving tried to pierce the darkness around her. Just where she was in the furthermost corner of the window embrasure, it was pitch dark, but above the screen and above the tall benches the white-washed ceiling showed up faintly in the dim light that came from the room beyond; and between the folds of the screen and the benches on either side there crept in long, narrow streaks of light.

After a while she realised what it was that had wakened her. The noises through which she had slept so comfortably had changed in character; there was still talking and laughing, but there was less of the clatter of dishes and no longer the rattle of dice; on the other hand there was much shuffling of feet, pushing and jolting, as of people hurrying away. Yes! that was it. Most of the men who had been supping in the public room were now leaving; Barbara could hear laughing good-byes, the creaking of belts being buckled on, and the clatter of swords, smacks on the shoulder from one comrade to another, and all these sounds becoming fainter and fainter and the stamping of feet and the laughter more distant, giving place to other sounds, more good-byes on the doorstep and the jingle of spurs on the cobble-stones of the street.

After that the eating room became very still. Vaguely she was conscious of waiting maids clearing away the remnants of suppers, and of some one extinguishing some of the candles, for the darkness around her became more pronounced, and the streaks of light each side of the screen more dim. But seemingly there were still some who lingered on after the others had gone, for Barbara could hear a discreet hum of voices, as of men talking confidentially to one another and half afraid of being overheard. Now and again a few isolated words reached her ears.

“The King’s cabinet” recurred once or twice, and “private correspondence,” followed by “folly, folly,” reiterated at intervals with growing emphasis.

The conversation appeared to be carried on by some half dozen men, in the intervals of drinking, for Barbara could hear the banging of pewter mugs against the table, and once there was a call for “more of that excellent Rhine wine.” The table round which these men sat was apparently quite close to the bench against the tall back of which Barbara was leaning, for she could even hear the gurgling of the wine as it was poured out of the bottles and the frequent smacking of lips.

All at once there was a great commotion in the house. The door of the public room was flung open, a man’s loud voice could be heard giving orders, speaking as one in authority; immediately the men in the room rose, there was a clatter of chairs being pushed back and one or two objects being overturned either in hurry or excitement. Then the same authoritative voice called again:

“Gentlemen, His Majesty.”

After which there came the reverberation of firm footsteps upon the tiled floor, the jingling of spurs, the clicking of heels, accompanied by a hasty “Good even to ye!” from a pleasant, cultured voice.

The next few moments were taken up by the newcomers apparently seating themselves at the table, together with the usual bustle attendant upon the arrival of distinguished guests at an inn.

Barbara did not dare to move; indeed she wished herself anywhere but where she was at the present moment. Respect for His Majesty’s presence, fear to appear before him in her present dishevelled and travel-stained condition caused her to remain cowering in the corner of the bench, terrified lest Mistress Dowdsley, remembering her, would presently call for her to go to her room. But even frightened and anxious as she was, she could not help hearing one of the conversations that went on so close to her.

The King appeared greatly angered about something, for presently he raised his voice and said sternly:

“It were a strange thing indeed if my marching army be governed by my council sitting at Oxford.”

“Those civilian busybodies”—here interposed a harsh voice to the accompaniment of several oaths—“had best be put in their proper places at once. Let their business be to provide us with the means for a fight—we’ll do the rest.”

In those harsh, somewhat arrogant tones, in the familiar oaths and manner of speaking Barbara had at once recognised the voice of Prince Rupert, the King’s nephew, a man who was known to have boundless influence over His Majesty’s Councils.

“Let Your Majesty but send word to Goring and Gerard to join us,” came anon from another speaker, “and in a week all fighting will have ceased in England, for Fairfax’s army is already on the run and we can make short work of them, now that their failure at Oxford hath broken their impudence.”

“That is folly, my good Digby,” Prince Rupert rejoined with his usual decisive manner. “Gerard cannot come to join us and we have sent to Goring, who hath failed to reply. Let Langdale rally his Yorkshiremen and we’ll attack Leven’s rear before he has time to breathe after the drubbing Montrose hath just given him; such a reverse would further demoralise the rebels and ...”

“And ye know well that this too is folly,” the King broke in, his even, gentle voice in strange contrast to the energy and harshness of the others. “We must before everything look to the future of our good city of Oxford. It hath stood one investment and escaped capture almost by a miracle; had Fairfax not abandoned the siege it could not have held out three weeks for lack of provisions, as ye well know, gentlemen. We must see to it that such dangers do not threaten us again,” he added with quiet decision, “and it will be some days ere we can collect a sufficiency of live stock, of corn and so on to despatch to the garrison. But until that is done we must remain here.”

Rupert uttered an impatient oath, and another speaker went on somewhat sullenly:

“Delay is oft more dangerous than action. My men would not find a march back to Oxford greatly to their liking.”

“I know, my good Langdale,” the King retorted drily, “that your Yorkshiremen’s patriotism is of an unpleasantly local character. Their allegiance to us starts vacillating as soon as they are ordered to leave their own county and to follow their King where they are most needed.”

“They are ignorant yokels for the most,” he who was called Langdale murmured, but was quickly interrupted by a gruff voice that had the West country burr in its tone.

“Ignorant yokels, bah!” the gruff voice said. “Traitors I should call them and—”

Apparently the last speaker was forcibly silenced at this stage with a commanding: “Hush, in God’s name!” from one of his friends, and “Walls even in Daventry have ears!” from another.

But, nothing daunted, the man from the west stuck to his point.

“Bah!” he muttered sullenly. “Listeners, ’tis averred, never hear good of themselves. If some of those Yorkshire captains are about, let them hear what I say; and, mark my words, Your Majesty,” he added, “they’ll give ye trouble yet, unless you hang one or two of them on the nearest gallows-tree.”

“They’ll be out of the way to-morrow, you old croaker,” the Prince retorted with a laugh, “for by His Majesty’s leave I’ll have them in Leicester by sundown, on the way to give Leven a sound drubbing whilst ye do the same to Fairfax and his Psalm-singing crowd.”

“Time enough for that, my dear Rupert,” the King rejoined with a weary sigh. “We must look after Oxford first; after that ’twill be time enough to beat Leven and Fairfax too. Tshaw, man! have ye forgotten Drake?”

“No, Your Majesty!” Rupert riposted lightly. “Drake finished his game of bowls when the Armada was in sight and I propose by your royal leave to hunt again in Fawsley Park with Your Majesty to-morrow, vainly hoping for a sight of an army of traitors.”

“’Tis a sight Your Highness cannot very well miss,” remarked Digby drily.

“How so?” queried the Prince.

“Hath Your Highness not heard the news, or His Majesty either?”

“No,” the King replied, “what news?”

“That Fairfax hath established himself at Kislingbury with his army.”

“Kislingbury?” the Prince queried nonchalantly. “And where the devil is Kislingbury, I pray you, sir?”

“Not eight miles from here. ’Tis said that he has nigh on thirteen thousand men with him.”

Prince Rupert gave a loud laugh. Barbara, in her mind, could picture him lounging over the table, his fine, white hands toying with the lace at his throat.

“No!” he said lightly. “No, my dear Digby. I had not heard. Doth it interest you much?” he went on with added flippancy.

“I cannot help remembering,” Digby rejoined, “that our army numbers less than eight.”

“And that I am about to take Langdale and his Yorkshiremen up north with me, eh?” the Prince rallied him gaily.

“Which will leave His Majesty with but six thousand men,” muttered another man.

“And the regiments are all scattered some way from their central post,” came in conclusion from Digby, the only man who appeared inclined to pessimism.

Again Prince Rupert laughed.

“Six thousand, or eight thousand, or four,” he said and loudly called for wine, “what do we care? Those canting Psalm-singers scarce know one end of their muskets from the other; as soon as they behold the King’s army they run, like so many rabbits, back to their burrows.”

Whereupon the King, who had been silent for the last few moments, added in tones of good-humoured banter:

“Are you forgetting Leicester, my good Digby, and that Fairfax and his crowd of whom you speak were forced to raise the siege of Oxford, not knowing how to attack even an unfortified town?”

“I was not forgetting Leicester, Your Majesty,” Digby replied with quiet insistence, “but I was also remembering Marston Moor.”

There was a moment’s silence after that, as if the cold hand of memory had suddenly passed over those enthusiasms and that flippancy and brought them back to face a reality which they would fain forget.

Then the gentle voice of King Charles was raised once more.

“Ironsides,” he said quietly, “is back at Westminster, so we are told; engaged chiefly in making speeches. He’ll not trouble us again.”

“By your leave, Sire,” one of the men rejoined, “some say that the Commons have appointed Oliver Cromwell to the Lieutenant-Generalship of their army and that he hath recruited three thousand foot and a thousand horse.”

“And if he hath,” Rupert retorted with a sneer, “are ye all afraid of Oliver Cromwell now?”

The taunt appeared to have stung them all into silence. Barbara, in her cosy nook, was enduring an agony of terror. She scarcely dared to breathe. Every moment she feared that Mistress Dowdsley would come and call for her to go to her room. The situation was becoming intolerable. She felt that she had no right to be here and to hear all that was said, and yet, having remained so long, she did not know how to disclose her presence and how she would explain her silence. She would never dare to appear before the King; and would these gentlemen believe that she had been half asleep all this while, or would they resent what they might term a woman’s curiosity to pry into the councils of men?

Be that as it may, she felt that her best—nay, her only—course would be to remain where she was, curled up in the corner of the bench, and if discovered presently to feign a deep sleep, from which she would, to all appearances, wake with difficulty. Whilst thus meditating on her future actions she lost the drift of the conversation that still went on between His Majesty and the leaders of his army until Squire Brent’s name, spoken by the King once more, arrested her attention.

“Have any of you gentlemen seen Michael Brent?” Charles was asking. “He left us as soon as he came into the city, saying he had arranged to meet his daughter at one of the taverns.”

“He must have been detained somewhere then,” Prince Rupert interposed, “as he told me that he would meet fair Mistress Barbara here, but that he did not expect her until to-morrow.”

“I am always sorry for the wench,” the King deigned to say. “It is a terrible fatality that she should be tied in marriage to one of those abominable Fiennes.”

“’Tis a marriage only in name, Your Majesty,” said Sir Marmaduke Langdale, who was an intimate friend of Squire Brent, “and as soon as all this trouble is over there should be no difficulty in obtaining a divorce.”

“None if we can help the wench to it,” assented His Majesty graciously. “And now, gentlemen,” he added, rising, “we’ll bid you good night. We’ve had a rare day’s sport and hope to have another to-morrow ere those damned rebels come further North to harass us. But methinks,” he concluded carelessly, “that there is not much fear of that.”

“None, Your Majesty, I’ll pledge mine oath,” Prince Rupert declared, “and if you will but grant me leave to go North with those disaffected Yorkshiremen—”

“If Your Majesty will grant me leave,” Digby broke in hurriedly, “to stir up Goring again I’ll answer for it that the rebel army will never harass us again.”

“’Tis folly, my good Digby,” the Prince interposed harshly.

And in a moment the whole wordy battle was fought over again. Prince Rupert’s plan to go north and to attack Leven was hotly contested by Digby, who desired to rally with Goring’s horse and with their aid fall on Fairfax’s retreating army. Voices rose to an angry pitch; some sided with Rupert, others with Digby, whilst now and again could be heard King Charles’s voice, mildly raised in protest.

“Peace, gentlemen!” he would say, and in her mind Barbara could see him, full of dignity and gentleness, his beautiful face pale with anxiety and one of his exquisite hands raised in admonition. “Please; we entreat.”

And at one time, when the argument looked to be degenerating into open quarrel, Barbara heard him quite distinctly murmuring with a sigh:

“Such dissensions will rob us of victory.”

But his own indecision was painfully apparent. At one time he seemed dejected, anxious, discussing one plan with Rupert and another with Digby, more desirous of avoiding Fairfax than of giving him battle; at another he was laughing, ridiculing the rebel army, the so-called New Model, of which there had been so much talk, and which even Oliver Cromwell’s genius could never mould into shape.

Then after a while the arguments subsided, the King apparently retiring to his rooms and Prince Rupert to his lodgings; one or two of the gentlemen were staying at the “Wheatsheaf” in attendance on His Majesty, whilst others had found quarters elsewhere. Anyway there were renewed “Good nights” and “Good-byes” and respectful leavetakings from King Charles and the Prince, who arranged for another day’s sport at Fawsley Park on the morrow.

Two or three of the officers still tarried in the eating-room. Barbara could hear them talking: there was Langdale and Digby and the man with the Somerset accent. It was he who said presently:

“You did not say anything to His Majesty about his cabinet?”

“No,” Digby replied. “I said all I could this morning, and His Majesty promised me that to-morrow or next day at latest he would send the whole of his private correspondence for safe-keeping to Oxford.”

“God grant he may!” Langdale ejaculated. “I’ve always maintained that if that correspondence, especially the one with Lorraine, were to fall into the hands of some of those rebels, there would be the devil or more to pay.”

“I wish we could have persuaded His Majesty not to write quite so freely to the Queen,” Digby rejoined, “and to keep drafts and copies of his letters to Lorraine is nothing short of madness. With a train on the march there is constant risk of a private cabinet falling into evil hands.”

“Oxford is no safe receptacle either,” the other remarked, “if the city had capitulated. What then?”

“True enough,” assented Langdale. “It is all very difficult. Anyway Oxford would be safe enough for the moment. We must pray for the best.”

“Amen to that!” concluded one of the others. “Well, gentlemen, I am for bed. What say you?”

“I say Amen. Where do you lodge?”

“At the ‘Running Footman.’ And you?”

“Sir Marmaduke and I are both housed in the ‘Grammar School.’”

“’Tis on my way. Shall we walk together?”

“At your service. Our linkmen are outside.”

“I have a fellow too; the streets are swarming with rogues. After you, gentlemen.”

A moment or two later the eating room was to all appearance deserted; the sound of voices grew fainter as the three officers went across the hall, then paused a while in the porch to greet a newcomer. Barbara thought that in the latter she recognised the lusty tones and cheery laugh of Squire Brent. Then all was silent again.