No Quarter!

“I have fears, Colonel, we won’t find it so. More likely the Prince was at Monmouth on account of what’s happened there; and will return to it – has returned already.”

“If so, Trevor, ’twill be a black night for you and me; a bitter disappointment, and something worse. If he’s gone from Hollymead, so will they – father, daughters, all. Rupert’s not the sort to leave such behind, with an abettor like Tom Lunsford. As for your cousin, remember how you crossed him. It’s but natural he should feel spiteful, and show it in that quarter.”

“If he do, I’ll cross him worse when we come to crossing swords. And I’ll find the chance. We’ve made mutual promise to give no quarter – almost sworn it. If ill befall Vaga Powell through him, I’ll keep that promise faithfully as any oath.”

“But right you should. And for settling scores you may soon have the opportunity; I trust within the hour.”

“Then, Colonel, you think they’ll still be at Hollymead.”

“I hope it rather; grounding my hope on another habit of this German Prince. One he has late been indulging to excess, ’tis said.”

“Drink?”

“Just so. In the which Lunsford, with head hard as his heart, will stand by him cup for cup.”

“But can that affect their staying at Hollymead?”

“Certainly it can; probably will.”

“How, Sir Richard?”

“By their getting inebriated there; or, at all events, enough so to make them careless about moving off before the morning. The more, as they can’t be expecting any surprise from this side. You remember there was a fair stock of wine in the cellars when we were there, best sorts too. Let loose at that, they’re likely to stay by it as long as the tap runs.”

“God grant it may run till morning then?” was the prayer of the young officer, fervently spoken. In his ways of thought and speech two years’ campaigning had made much change, deepening the gravity of one naturally of serious turn.

“No matter about morning,” rejoined Sir Richard. “If it but hold out for another hour, and we find them there, something else will then be running red as the wine. Ah, Master Lunsford! One more meeting with you, that’s what I want now. If I’m lucky enough to have it this night, this night will be the last of your life.”

The apostrophe, which was but a mental reflection, had reference to something Sabrina had been telling him, vividly recalled by the words in her latest letter, “that horrid man.”

At the same instant, and in similar strain, was Eustace Trevor reflecting about his Cousin Reginald; making mental vow that, if Vaga suffered shame by him, neither would his life be of long endurance.

By this they had surmounted the pitch, and arrived at a spot both had good reason to remember. It was the piece of level turf where once baring blades they had come so near sending one or other out of the world. Their horses remembered it too – they were still riding the same – and with a recollection which had a result quaintly comical. Soon as on the ground, without check of rein or word said, they came to a sudden halt, turned head to head, snorting and angry-like, as if expecting a renewal of the combat!

All the more strange this behaviour on the part of the animals, that, since their hostile encounter, for now over two years they had been together in amiable association!

A circumstance so odd, so ludicrous, could not fail to excite the risibility of their riders; and laugh both did, despite their serious mood at the moment. To their following it but caused surprise; two alone comprehending, so far as to see the fun of it. These Hubert, the trumpeter, and the “light varlit” then so near coming to blows with him, who through thick and thin, had ever since stuck to the ex-gentleman-usher, his master.

No doubt the little interlude would have led to some speech about it, between the chief actors in the more serious encounter it recalled, but for something at that moment seen by them, turning their thoughts into a new channel. Away westward, beyond Drybrook, beyond Ruardean Ridge, the sky showed a clearness that had nought to do with the moon’s light; instead was ruddier, and shone brighter, as this became obscured by a thick cloud drifting over her disk. A glowing, gleaming light, unusual in a way; but natural enough regarded as the glare of a conflagration – which in reality it was.

“House on fire over yonder?” cried one of the soldiers.

“May be only a haystack,” suggested a second.

“More like a town, judgin’ by the big blaze,” reasoned a third.

“There’s no town in that direction; only Ruardean, where’s we be goin’.”

“Why maunt it be Ruardean, then?” queried the first speaker; “or the church?”

“An’ a good thing if’t be the church,” put in one of strong Puritan proclivities. “It want burnin’ down, as every other, wi’ their altars an’ images. They be a curse to the country; the parsons too. They’ve taken sides wi’ the stinkin’ Cavaliers, agaynst Parliament and people, all along.”

“That’s true,” endorsed another of like iconoclastic sentiments; “an’ if it a’nt the church as be givin’ up that light, let’s luminate it when we get there. I go for that.”

A proposal which called forth a chorus of assenting responses.

While this play of words was in progress along the line of rank and file rearwards, the Colonel and Captain Trevor, at its head, were engaged in a dialogue of conjectures about the same – a brief one.

“What think you it is?” asked Sir Richard, as they sat halted in their saddles regarding the garish light. “It looks to be over Ruardean, or near it.”

“A fire of some kind, Colonel. No common one either.”

“A farmer’s rick?”

“I fear not; would we were sure of its being only that!”

“Ha! A house you think?”

“I do, Sir Richard.”

“And – ?”

“The one we’re making for!”

“By Heavens! I believe it is. It bears that way to a point. Ruardean’s more to the right. Yes, it must be Hollymead!”

Both talked excitedly, but no more words passed between them there and then. The next heard was the command – “March – double quick!” and down the hill to Drybrook went they at a gallop over the tiny stream, and up the long winding slope round the shoulder of Ruardean Hill – without halt or draw on bridle. There only poising for an instant, as they came within view of the village and saw the conflagration was not in, but wide away from it; the glare and sparks ascending over the spot where Hollymead House should be, but was no more.

As, continuing their gallop, they rode in through the park gates, it was to see a vast blazing pile, like a bonfire built by Titans – the fagots’ great beams heaped together confusedly – from which issued a hissing and crackling, with at intervals loud explosions, as from an ordnance magazine on fire.

Chapter Sixty Five

Very Near an Encounter

Mitcheldean lies at the foot of the steep façade already spoken of as forming a periphery to the elevated Forest district. The slope ascends direct from the western skirts of the little town; but outlying ridges also inclose it on the north, east, and south, so that even the tall spire of its church is invisible from any great distance. So situated, railways give it a wide berth; and few places better deserve the title “secluded.” The only sort of traveller who ever thinks of paying it a visit is the “commercial,” or some pedestrian tourist, crossing the Forest from the Severn side to view the more picturesque scenery of the Wye, with intention to make stoppage at the ancient hostelry of the Speech House, midway between.

In the days of the saddle and pack-horse, however, things were different with Mitcheldean. Being on one of the direct routes of travel from the metropolis to South Wales, and a gate of entry, as it were, to the Forest on its eastern side, it was then a place of considerable note; its people accustomed to all sorts of wayfarers passing daily, hourly through it.

Since the breaking out of the Rebellion these had been mostly of the military kind, though not confined to either party in the strife. One would march through to-day, the other to-morrow; so that, hearing the trample of hoofs, rarely could the townsmen tell whether Royalists or Parliamentarians were coming among them, till they saw their standards in the street.

They would rather have received visit from neither; but, compelled to choose, preferred seeing the soldiers of the Parliament. So when Walwyn’s Horse came rattling along, their green coats, with the cocks’-tail feathers in their hats, distinguishable in the clear moonlight, the closed window shutters were flung open; and night-capped heads – for most had been abed – appeared in them without fear exchanging speech with the soldiers halted in the street below.

Altogether different their behaviour when, in a matter of ten minutes after, a second party of horsemen came to a halt under their windows; these in scarlet coats, gold laced, with white ostrich feathers in their hats – the Prince of Wales’s plume, with its appropriate motto of servility, “Ich dien.”

Seeing it, the townsmen drew in their heads, closed the shutters, and were silent. Not going back to their beds, however; but to sit up in fear and trembling, till the renewed hoof-strokes told them of the halt over, and the red-coated Cavaliers ridden off again.

It need scarce be said that these were Rupert and his escort, en route for Westbury; and had Walwyn’s Horse stopped ten minutes longer in Mitcheldean, the two bodies would have there met face to face; since they were proceeding in opposite directions. A mere accident hindered their encountering; the circumstance, that from the town two roads led up to the Forest, one on each side of the Wilderness, both again uniting in the valley of Drybrook. The northern route had been taken by the Parliamentarian party ascending; while the Royalists descended by the southern one, called the “Plump Hill.” Just at such time as to miss one another, though but by a few minutes. For the rearmost files of the former had barely cleared the skirts of the town going out, when the van of the latter entered it at a different point.

The interval, however, was long enough to prevent those who went Forestwards from getting information of what they were leaving so close behind. Could they have had that, quick would have been their return down hill, and the streets of Mitcheldean the arena of a conflict to the cry, “No Quarter!”