No Quarter!

“What should we do?” inquired Vaga, after the cadgeress had parted company with them, retiring to the kitchen.

“What can we do? Nothing, till father comes home. As they must have had the intelligence at Gloucester, yesterday evening at latest, we may look for him soon. I suppose we must give up all thought of hawking to-day? Some one had better go to Van Dorn’s lodge, and tell him not to come.”

“Too late! There he is now.”

The falconer was seen approaching by a side path, with an attendant who carried the hawks on a cadge, a couple of dogs following. At the same instant saddled horses, in the charge of grooms, were being brought round from the rear of the house. All this had been ordered beforehand, the ladies having sate down to breakfast costumed and equipped for the sport of falconry.

“Shall we send them back?” queried Sabrina, irresolutely.

“Why should we?”

Vaga was passionately fond of hawking; and, now that she knew the worst of that foreboding late felt, was something of herself again. The taking of Monmouth was but one of the many incidents of the war; no misfortune had happened to any in whom they had special concern.

“I suppose we’ll have to leave Hollymead now,” she added, “once more to take up our abode in cities. In which case it may be long before we have another day with hawks. If we don’t go, Van Dorn will be so disappointed.”

“If we do, then,” rejoined Sabrina, half assentingly, “it mustn’t be far – not outside the park.”

“Agreed to that. No need for our going out of it. Inside we’ll find plenty of things to fly your Mer at. As for my Pers, if better don’t turn up, we can whistle them off at a cushat.”

So it was settled, and in twenty minutes after they were in their saddles, and away beyond sight of the house, listening to the hooha-ha-ha-ha, the whistle and the whoop.

Chapter Fifty Four

A Glittering Cohort

It was getting late in the afternoon when a party of horsemen, numbering about two hundred, commenced the ascent of Cat’s Hill, going in the direction of Ruardean.

Soldiers they were, in scarlet doublets, elaborately laced; their standard flag, with the Royal arms in its field, and a crown upon the peak of its staff, proclaiming them in the service of the king.

That it was no common cavalry troop could be told by other distinctive symbols. Beside the three or four subalterns in their places along the line, half a score other officers were at its head; in gorgeous uniforms, and with hats grandly plumed, as on the personal staff of a general. And such were they; the rank and file rearward being his escort. No ordinary general either, but the commander-in-chief of the King’s armies – Prince Rupert himself.

His own garb in splendour outshone all; a blaze of jewels and gold, from the aigrette in his hat to the spurs upon his heels – costume more befitting court than camp.

But he was not now on any war expedition; instead, on the way to seek conquest of other kind than by the sword.

It was the day succeeding that night of revelry at his quarters in Bristol; and the words there exchanged between him and Colonel Lunsford will explain his presence on the Cat’s Hill, with face turned towards Ruardean. For in that direction also lay Hollymead House whither he was proceeding.

Quick work and a rapid ride had he made of it; evincing the strong passion of fancy with which the “bit of saucy sweetness” had inspired him.

Lunsford was with him, by his side; the two some lengths in the lead, and apart from the others, conversing as they rode on.

“You think, mein Colonel,” said the Prince, interrogatively, “we shall find the fraüleins at home this time!”

“Pretty sure of it, your Highness. Since the Goodrich ferryman heard of their being at Hollymead yesterday, it’s scarcely probable they can have taken departure since.”

“But the news from Monmouth will have reached them. How about that?”

“It will affect them somewhat, I dare say. Still, Master Powell is not a man to be easily frightened. As your Highness will be aware, Ruardean is not under the Monmouth Commissioners. Sir John Wintour on the Gloucester side, is the one Powell has most reason to apprehend a visit from. And as he will know of Sir John’s being held in check by Massey, he won’t be much alarmed, just yet. Still, no doubt, he’ll be for moving back again to Gloucester; though not in such hot haste, but that your Highness will have an opportunity of holding speech with him.”

“Gott! Sir Thomas; that should be the reverse of pleasant, from what you’ve told me about the old Roundhead’s tongue. He may give it me as he did yourself.”

“No fear of that, your Highness.”

“Why not, pray?”

“The circumstances are quite different. He had backings about him then – these ugly fores fellows, five to our one. Besides a Royal Prince – Puritan though he be – he’ll have respect for that. But what matters it about his prating? Your Highness intends laying him by the heels.”

“That will depend on circumstances. We must try the suaviter before the fortiter. If fair words fail, then – the extremities.”

“Our present visit to the Master of Hollymead is to be of a friendly character then? Is that your Highness’s intention!”

“Ceremoniously so; all the politeness to be observed by every one of our escort. You will see to that, Colonel?”

“It shall be seen to. But does your Highness propose taking them all to the house? It might be convenient to leave some at the village, to wait your coming back.”

“Nein, nein!” impatiently exclaimed the Prince. “All go on with me.”

Astute schemer as was Lunsford himself, he was not aware of certain motives actuating his master. Anything but an Adonis was the son of the Elector Palatinate. Yet such he dreamed himself, with a confidence in his power of fascinating the fair sex almost illimitable. The type and boast of Cavalierism, he wielded sway uncontrolled wherever he went, or the Royal cause was triumphant; women, as men, either willingly submitting to his caprices, or not daring to oppose them. Many a conquest had he made over weak creatures consenting. For the achievement of such he well knew the advantage of stately show and regal surroundings, nowhere more effective than in the country he was defiling with his presence. Even at this day as then, where the proverbial indemnity for the wrong-doing of kings is extended to princes and princelets, their social backslidings gaining them credit, rather than blame, under the facetious title, geniality.

No man better than Rupert knew woman’s weakness in this regard. Hence the shining retinue he had summoned to attend him in this ride through the Forest of Dean – one of the pleasure excursions he was accustomed to make under the plea of a military reconnaissance. For, although the future pirate of the West Indian seas was quite indifferent to English public opinion, there were reasons then for him not too openly outraging it. By his defeats and failures he had lost the countenance of the court, and intrigue was there busy against him.

“In that case, your Highness,” rejoined Lunsford, “there’s no necessity for our going through the village. A path leads through the woods by which it can be avoided.”

“Is it a roundabout?”

“Not much, if any. It comes back into this again, near Hollymead Park gates. If we pass through the village your Highness’s escort will gain a large accession of strength, which may not be agreeable to you.”

“Gott, yes! Something in that, Sir Thomas. Let us take the other way, then. Where does it branch off?”

“There, your Highness”; and he pointed to the embouchure of a wood road some paces ahead on the right.

Without further speech they turned into it, and rode on beneath the shadow of trees, whose branches, arcading over, hindered sight of the sun. For, though October, these were still in full foliage, the leaves falling late in the Forest of Dean. But green no more; save those of the yew, holly, and frost-defying bramble, with the mistletoe and its pearl-like pellucid berries. All others showed hues and tints varied, and almost as vivid as those of the tropical forests so much extolled by travellers.

A winding path it was, by reason of the steep incline; and as in silence the glittering cohort, forced into single file by its narrowness, slowly followed the sinuosities upward, it might have been likened to a gigantic serpent in crawl towards unsuspecting prey.

This similitude in more ways than one; for at the head of that glancing line there were serpents, though in human shape, making approach to what they intended as victims.

Chapter Fifty Five

Hawking at Home

The peregrines had killed cushat and partridge, the merlin its half-score of buntings and turtle-doves, and the ladies having had a surfeit of sport, were about setting faces homeward. Not that it was late – still wanting two hours of sunset – but the news from Monmouth had disquieted them, and they were feeling anxious about their father’s return. He might be back already, and if so, would wonder at their being away from the house.

Van Dorn had called off the dogs, rehooded the hawks, and made all ready for the start home, when game, of a sort that day unseen by them, came unexpectedly in view. A heron on its way across the Forest from the Severn to the Wye, flying low as it passed over the park.

Hapless heron! A temptation no falconer could resist; and at leave, or rather command, from the younger of his mistresses, off went hoods again, leashes were let loose, and once more away flew the noble falcons, mounting spirally upward.

Just at that moment the gates of the park were thrown open to admit Prince Rupert and his retinue. With Lunsford still by his side, the two had already looked through the rails and up the avenue. To see there what gave them satisfaction; the house with windows no longer shuttered, smoke ascending from several of the chimneys, in short every sign of occupation.