No Quarter!

“What do you mean, Eustace?” asked the other, looking a little roughed.

“That yonder gentleman,” he nodded towards Sir Richard, now well out of hearing, “is a perfect master of both sword and horse. He proved himself my master in less than five minutes after engaging; could have thrust me in as many seconds had he been so disposed. While fighting with him I felt a very child in his hands; and he, as I now chance to know, was but playing with me. In the end he disarmed me – could have done it long before – by this touch in the wrist, which sent my rapier spinning off into the air. That isn’t all. He has disarmed me in another sense; changed me from angry foe to, I might almost say, friend. That’s why I’ve told you that I’m in a way his prisoner.”

“It’s a strange tale,” rejoined Reginald, choking down his wrath. “All that, by sun, moon, and stars! But I won’t question you further about it; only tell me why you are here. I thought you were so fixed in the Palace of Westminster, such a favourite of the grand lady who there rules the mart, you’d never more care to breathe a breath of country air. Yet here I find you in the Forest of Dean – its very heart – far away from court and city life as man could well get within England’s realm. How has it come about, cousin?”

“I wouldn’t mind telling you, Rej, if there was time. But there isn’t. As you see, Sir Richard is waiting for me.”

“Sir Richard who?”

“Walwyn.”

“Oh, that’s the name of your generous conqueror?”

“It is.”

“I’ve heard of the individual, though never saw him till now. But how fell you into his company, and what brought about your quarrel?”

“Leave it, Rej, like other matters, till we meet again, and have more time to talk over such things.”

“Agreed. Still there’s time to say why you are going to Hollymead House.”

“Hollymead House?”

“Oh, you didn’t know that was the name of Ambrose Powell’s place!”

“Ambrose Powell?”

“What! Nor yet the name of the man you’re about to pay visit to?”

“I confess I do not.”

“Nor anything else of him?”

“Nothing whatever.”

He was on the point of adding, “Only that I’ve been told something about a pair of pretty girls,” when it occurred to him he might be touching on a subject in which his cousin had a tender concern.

“’Pon my honour!” rejoined the latter, making an uphill attempt to laugh, “the tale grows stranger and stranger! You, of the King’s Household, on your way to make acquaintance – friendly, of course – with one of his Majesty’s greatest and most pronounced enemies – a man who hates King, Court, and Church; above all, bitter against your especial patroness, the Queen. I’ve heard him call her a Jezebel, with other opprobrious epithets.”

“Odd in you, Rej, such a devoted Royalist, to have listened calmly to all that?”

“I didn’t listen calmly; would have quickly stopped his seditious chattering, but for – ”

“For what?” asked the other, seeing he hesitated.

“Oh, certain reasons I may some day make known to you. Like yourself, Eust, I have some secrets.”

Eust thought he could give a good guess at one of them, but mercifully forbore allusion to it.

“But,” he said, with an air of pretended surprise, “you’ve been just visiting this terrible king-hater yourself, Rej? If I mistake not, you came out of the park. You were up to the house, were you not?”

“I was.”

“And has it shaken your loyalty, or in any way weakened it?”

“On the contrary, strengthened it. My errand to Ambrose Powell, with the reception he vouchsafed me – the ill-grained curmudgeon – has had all that effect.”

“Then you’ve been quarrelling, too! Have you any objection to tell me what about?”

“Not the slightest. I was the bearer of a letter of Privy Seal to him – for a loan. Sir John Wintour, as you may be aware, has been appointed one of the King’s Commissioners of Array for West Gloucestershire and the Forest. You know I’m in his service, which will make the matter understandable to you.”

“And you haven’t got the money? I needn’t ask; there’s the signs of refusal in your face.”

“Got the money! Zounds! no. Instead, the recusant tore the letter into shreds, and flung them at his feet; defying me, Sir John, King, and all! Ah! well; that won’t be the end of it. I shall be sure of having occasion to visit Hollymead again, and ere long! Next time the tables will be turned. But, cousin, after hearing what I’ve told you, are you still in the mind to go on to that seditious den? If you take my advice, you’ll turn your back on Hollymead House, and come along with me. I’m making for Ross.”

“To take your advice, Rej, would be to do as rude a thing as a man well could – ruder than I ever did in my life. Disloyal, too – doubly so; I should be traitor to gratitude, as to courtesy. Indeed, I’ve trenched scandalously on good manners now, by keeping yonder gentleman so long waiting for me.”

He nodded towards Sir Richard, who had halted at some distance up the avenue.

“Oh, very well,” sneeringly rejoined Sir John Wintour’s emissary. “Of course, you can do as you like, Eust. I’m not your master, though yonder gentleman, as you call him, seems to be. Good-evening!”

And with this curt leave-taking, the sneer still on his face, he dug the spurs deep into his horse’s ribs, and went off at a gallop along the road for Ross.

Chapter Eleven

Three Curious Characters

“Yee-up, Jinkum! Yee-up!”

The exclamations were accompanied by the thwack of a stick over the hips of a donkey half-hidden under a pair of panniers.

“Don’t press the poor creetur, Jack. It be a hardish climb up the pitch. Gie’t its time.”

“But you know, Winny, the panners be most nigh empty – more’s the pity.”

“True o’ that. But consider how fur’s been the day. Seven mile to Monnerth – a good full load goin’ – an’ same back, whens we be home. An’t han’t had thing to eat, ’cept the pickin’s ’long the roadside.”

“All the more reezun for gittin’ ’im soon home. I’d lay wager, if the anymal kud speak, ’t ’ud say the same.”

“Might. But, for all that, him’s rightdown tired. If him want, there wud be no need yer slappin’ he. Don’t slap him any more, Jack.”

“Well, I won’t. Yee-up, Jinkum! I ’ant a-goin’ to gi’ ye the stick agen. ’Nother mile, and ye’ll be back to yer own bit o’ paster in the ole orchart, whar the grass’ll be up to yer ears. Yee-up!”

At which Jinkum, as though comprehending the merciful disposition towards him, and grateful for it, seemed to improve his pace.

The speakers were a man and woman, both of uncommon appearance – the man a diminutive specimen of humanity, who walked with a jerking gait, due to his having a wooden leg. The woman was taller than he, by the head and shoulders quite; while in every other way above the usual dimensions of her sex. Of a somewhat masculine aspect, she was withal far from ill-favoured – rather the contrary. Her gown of coarse homespun, dust-stained and délabré, could not conceal a voluptuous outline of figure; while to have her eyes and hair many a queen would have been glad to give the costliest jewel in her crown. The complexion was dark, the features of a gipsy type – though she was not one – the hair, a very hatful, carelessly coiled around her head, black as the wing of a crow. The first thought of one beholding her would be: “What a woman, if but washed and becomingly clad?” For both skin and dress showed something more than the dust that day caught up from the road – smouches of older date. Despite all, she was a grand, imposing personage; of tireless strength, too, as evinced by her easy, elastic step while breasting that steep pitch on her twenty-second mile since morning. The journey seemed to have had little effect on her, however it may have jaded Jinkum.

Notwithstanding the disparity in size between the man and woman – a good deal also in their age, he being much her senior – they bore a certain resemblance to one another. It lay in their features and complexion; Jack having a gipsyish look, too. Nor any wonder at their being some little alike, since they were not man and wife, but brother and sister – both born Foresters. There was nothing in the character of either at all disreputable, though their business was such as usually brings suspicion on those who follow it. Known all over the forest, and for miles around it, as cadgers, they trafficked in every conceivable thing by which an honest penny might be made, though their speciality was the transport of fowls, with other products of the farmyard, to the markets of Ross and Monmouth – generally on freight account – taking back such parcels as they could pick up. Ruardean was their port of departure and return; their home, when they were at home, being a cottage in the outskirts of that elevated village.