Chapter IV: A Finale (1)

That figure stepped forth and seized her by the arm while saying, in tones quite loud enough for me to hear, "What are you making that noise for here? and who are you? and who, in the fiend's name, is Isidore?"

"O kind sir! O monsieur!" I heard the girl answer. "Oh! please, sir, don't kill me, and don't wake the Princess. Oh! what are you doing in her garden at this hour?"

"Who is Isidore?" the masked one asked sternly.

"O kind sir, he is the coachman. We are to be married soon, and we make a little tryst at night when it is fine above. O sir, if the Princess should wake?"

"Wake! How should she be asleep? Is she not entertaining some Englishman to supper to-night?"

"Ah, monsieur! Ah, _mon Dieu_! You believe that! 'Tis a cold supper then! Look, monsieur, at the _salle-a-manger_."

"Bah! She has a boudoir, I suppose?"

"Ah! monsieur, would you believe that of the Princess! And all because she played a little jest upon a foolish Englishman who pesters her with his attentions, a poor half-witted thing, who even now, at this moment, is dilly-dallying at the side-door, thinking he will be let in. _Peste!_ he will wait a long while," and she began to sing a song out of Regnard's new comedy about a man waiting for a lady under an elm, and waiting a mighty long time too--

"Attendez-moi sous l'orme," she sang, "vous m'attendrez longtemps."

"A little jest," the cloaked and masked man said, turning round to his companion; "a little jest. And the animal is by the side-door. Is this the truth?" re-turning his face towards the girl.

"Ah! monsieur. The truth! How can it be aught else--when--when the Prince of Csaba and Miranda Vitoria honours her with his admiration."

"Come," the man said to his companion now. "Come. We, too, will go round to the side-door and see this ardent lover--and, perhaps, punish his insolence. These English are insupportable. As for you--go to your Isidore, your coachman."

"Oh! _non, monsieur, non!_ He will not come now. There will be no Isidore to-night. He is timorous. If he has seen monsieur, he will have shrunk away."

"Go then to your bed, and stay in it; and, above all, say nothing to the Princess of our being in this garden to-night."

"For certain, monsieur, otherwise I should have to say I was here too. Good-night, monsieur." Then, as the man turned to move away, she suddenly stopped him by catching the end of his cloak, and, thereby, forcing him to turn; he saying somewhat haughtily, "What is it, good woman? What?"

"Only that monsieur will not laugh at the poor Englishman, will not deride him. They cannot bear that!"

"No," the other said, "I will not laugh at him. Rely on me. There will be no laughing," and again he turned and went upon his way, accompanied by the other.

* * * * *

"You have done a fine thing for poor Giles," I said to the Princess, as now she rejoined me in the great _salle_. "A fine thing. I must get back to him at once and lend a hand if I would not find him hacked to pieces by those two cut-throats sent out by your precious Prince."

"Why," she said calmly, "I thought you said he was a fighter. Is he not so?" she went on, while all the time she was unwrapping the hood from her head and--next--taking off the horrible Brittany cap which hid her beautiful hair that, now it was no longer obscured, gleamed a superb dark chestnut in the rays of the moon.

"He is that," I replied, "and a good one, as most men who have been soldier and sailor both, to say nothing of wandering about Europe as an adherent of an unhappy cause, are like to be. But the man is a good tilter who can hold his own against two."

"Perhaps he will not have to fight two of them," she said, still very calmly. "One has, I imagine, no fighting in him."

"What makes you think that?"

"Oh! Oh! Well, let us wait and see. Perhaps--well! I can't say."

"You observed that fellow well, anyhow. And heard his voice."

"Yes, yes!" she said; "yes, but it was no---- Come," she said, "let us go and look after the watchdog."

Whereon we now retraced our steps, passing out of the great hall and down the corridor towards where the side-door with the little wicket in it was.

And then, as we drew near that door, we heard (and more especially we did so because Damaris had forgotten to close the little wicket after she had looked through it at me, so that noises outside, if any, might plainly be distinguished) the clash of arms, a sound sweet enough to a soldier's ears.

"Hark!" I said, redoubling my pace as I did so, and catching hold of the girl's hand, whereby she was compelled also to move more swiftly, though, in sober truth, I think she was as anxious to reach the door and get it open as I was myself. "Hark! they have set upon him. And there _were_ two. Oh! this is cowardly, murderous! I must take my share."

"Pray Heaven he, your man, kills not two of them. That would cause a terrible stir, and--and--and would part us for ever, Adrian."

"Nothing shall do that," I muttered determinately, perhaps grimly, through my lips. "Nothing!"

Then, we being by this time close to the door, I seized the latch and opened it, running out into the little open _place_ in front of it, which was flooded by the glorious splendour of the full moon.

What a strange scene it was upon which my eyes lit, even as I heard my sweetheart murmur, "God be praised! he, at least, is not slain--yet."

A strange scene indeed, though with a ludicrous side to it; one that might have made me laugh, maybe, at any other time, and if I had not myself been concerned deeply in all that was a-doing. For there was my brave, courageous servitor, this man who had been a wandering sailor as well as soldier, and also a faithful follower of a hardly-treated race, standing up manfully against another swordsman who was making swift passes at him, they fighting across the body of a third who lay prone and prostrate with Giles's foot upon his body.

And that last was the fact which would have made me laugh in any other circumstance, for, swiftly, I recalled how in the days of my childhood this very Giles had taken me to see Barton Booth in one of Mr. Sotherne's beautiful tragedies at the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and how, when the actor struck the villain down--exactly in the middle of the stage!--he had placed his foot upon his chest, and waved his triumphant sword over the fallen one. I recalled, too, how Giles had applauded, and had said, "O Master Adrian, Master Adrian, that is the way to conquer, to subdue a villain!"

And now the poor faithful, honest fool had himself struck a villain down, and with his foot upon that villain's chest--in a splendid, tragic, and theatrical manner--was as like to strike another one down ere long; for, even as I tore open the little door, and rushed out followed by Damaris, he disarmed the other fighter, lunged at him, and, missing his heart, yet brought him to his knee, while he drew back his sword once more to plunge it through the other's body.

"Stop!" rang out the Princess's voice, clear and imperious; "stop, man, I command you. Adrian, forbid him. It is the Prince," she whispered in my ear; "I recognised his voice easily in the garden."

"Why?" I asked, hot and excited myself now, "why stop? Why should he, this midnight assassin, be spared?"

"'Tis Csaba, I tell you," she said. "'Tis the Prince. If he is slain there can never be," and she lowered her voice more deeply still, "any union betwixt _England_ and _Spain_."

"Hold your weapon, Giles," I cried, understanding in a moment what she would convey, and, in honest truth, not deeming this contemptible Prince's life worth the cost of a broken union 'twixt an Englishman and a Spanish girl who loved each other. "Hold up. Be still, I say."

And, obedient to my command, perhaps obedient also to those earlier, haughtier commands uttered in the girl's clear tones, Giles did hold, yet muttering while doing so that he would have been through the other's lungs in a moment.

"So, monseigneur," my sweetheart said, addressing the masked Prince, who now rose from off the knee on to which he had been beaten, "you are content to play the part of murderer, are you? And on a serving-man! For shame!"

"He wore his master's cloak," a deep, muffled voice said. "Until that master appeared just now at your side I thought I was fighting with him."

"Therefore you and your confederate," and I glanced at the dead man at our feet, "sought to murder me. Wherefore?"

"Ay, wherefore?" repeated Damaris.

"Because you loved him, and--and I loved you."

"Nay," she said softly, "I did not love him then; I--I do not think I did, though, in honesty, I will say I deemed him the brightest, most worthy, pleasant man I have ever known. But now----"

"Now!" came from both our pairs of lips, from Csaba's and from mine.

"Now I love him, and no other man shall ever have my heart."

For a moment there was silence amongst us all, though I stole my hand towards that of Damaris, and, finding it, held it fast; yet but a little later Csaba muttered--

"It is impossible. He is beneath you."

Now, though I had heard those sweet words of the girl's only a moment before, these latter ones angered me, drove me beside myself, for I was weary of hearing so often that I, an Englishman, was unworthy to be the mate of any one, no matter how high that one might be placed. Wherefore, furious, and stepping up to this man, this prince who skulked about in the night with secret murder in his heart, I said, bending my face forward so that it was very near to his, and doing so with a desire to give weight to my words--

"Hark you, I have heard these words before. But now, unless you are an arrant cur--such as assassins always are--you shall retract them, or I will cram them down your throat. For if you say that not only I, but also any Englishman, high or low, gentle or simple, is not the equal of any foreigner, even though he be a prince of Austria or of Spain, then you lie. I say, you lie. Do you hear--you lie."

While, even as he started and staggered back, clutching his cloak convulsively with the hand that held its folds together, I continued--

"Now, if there is any fight left in you after the defeat you have received at the hands of this simple, honest English peasant, take your sword in hand and let us see whether you will justify your words or swallow mine." Then, turning to Giles, I said, "Pick up this fellow's weapon and give it to him."

"No," exclaimed Damaris; while, looking round as Giles did as I bade him, I saw her standing by me, pale, and like a statue, yet with her beautiful eyes ablaze. "No, you shall not fight with him, Adrian. Prince as he is, and, alas! of my land, he is unworthy to cross swords with you.--As for you," she said, addressing Csaba, "begone. Begone from off this _place_, which belongs to my hotel and is mine, and let me never see your face again. Go," she said, stamping her foot on the rough cobblestones; "go, I say."

Yet still he did not move, but, instead, stood there looking like some great black statue in his long cloak and mask, and with his head bent towards the ground, so that I concluded he knew not what to do, but, in his pride and rage, was determined not to quit the ground at her orders.

And she, seeing this, and, as she told me afterwards, understanding very well the tempest that must be raging in his heart, said, "Come, Adrian. Since he will not go, we must."

Wherefore we went back to her house followed by Giles, and leaving the Prince of Csaba and Miranda Vitoria still standing in the open space before the little door.

* * * * *

Now the story is done--done, that is, unless you would desire me to tell you what you doubtless can very well imagine; namely, that it was not long before the Princess and I became man and wife. Yet hard enough that marriage was in making, I can assure you, and one which I thought would never be completed. For, although my girl, having once acknowledged that she loved me, was as willing to be my wife as I was eager to have her, the forms and ceremonies we had to go through to get what Giles called "triced up" were enough to irritate one of Damaris's own saints; for there was the Consul of Spain--the Consul of the, by her, hated Philip V.--to be invoked, and the English ambassador to be consulted, who, since he represented King George, was not agreeable to me; and the permission of the Archbishop of Lyons, Primate of France, to be obtained, and a permission sent over from England from the Archbishop of Canterbury, the head of my church. And we went through all kinds of ceremonies, and were half-married a week before we were finally allowed to consider ourselves man and wife, while I became very irritable through it all, and Damaris muttered all kinds of strange little expletives in Spanish through her pretty teeth and scarlet lips, which, she told me afterwards, would not have sounded so nicely in English. Also, I should not forget to say that Giles signed countless papers and parchments as a witness, and looked very important over it all, and whispered lines of love-ballads to me at intervals to cheer me up, and ate enormously at every opportunity which offered.

However, done it was at last, and we were wedded. And, although my wife could not take me to any of her great possessions because she would not set foot in Spain while Philip ruled, and I could not take her to my home in Staffordshire (where the Trent rises) because of my political principles, we were very well content--since we were both young and hopeful!--and so we settled down in the old Paris house of the Carbajals in the Marais, and have, up to now, lived happy ever after, as the chapbooks say; a happiness which, you may be very sure, was not ruffled when we heard that the Prince of Csaba and Miranda Vitoria had married a princess of the ancient house of Ponte-Casoria (which is allied to the greater house of Bourbon), who was extremely rich, but as wizened as a monkey (as my wife told me), and who, report declared, led Csaba a terrible life.

AN OUTLAW'S FORTUNES

BY W. C. WHISTLER

"Forest-dweller and outlaw I may be, Master Cork," I said; "but I would have you remember that I was an honest man before I was driven here, and an honest man I am still, though I must needs be in hiding for speaking up for the weaker side."

"Honest men don't slay the king's deer," sneered Cork. "It seems to me that you have run into a fair noose by this time, for all your fine talk, seeing that deer-slaying is a hanging matter--for the king is the king, whether you choose to own him or not."

"Hungry men cannot stay to think of that," I answered shortly. But I knew that he was right, and that I must needs, with every honest door closed to me, go on sinking in the mire, as it were.

"Hungry forsooth!" he said. "And gold to be had to-night for the picking up! Come with me, I say, and the forest will know you no longer. Listen! yonder fall more bedizened nobles, with good gold nobles in their purses moreover to prove their nobility!"

I had heard plainly enough. The cold wind of Maytime set from far-off Hexham level to where we were standing under the shadow of Blockhill, and not for the first time that day the heavy sound of cannon came down it, like and yet unlike thunder. There was another battle on hand between the white rose and the red. Margaret of Anjou was making one more struggle, for herself and her son and husband, against Edward of York.

"Outlaw and fallen as I am," I said bitterly, "I will have no share in robbing the dead."

And then the thought of what this ruffian had proposed to me came over me in all its horror--that he and I should prowl over the field of battle when night fell, and seek for riches among the quiet slain--and I shrank from him. Whereat he grinned evilly, and that turned my contempt to wrath, so that my hand went to the hilt of the broad forester's hanger that I wore.

"Away with you," I said, "I will have no more of you."

"Well, well; be not so hasty, I pray you. I did but jest," he stammered, giving back a pace or two.

But I knew better. No true man jests with such things, and I told him so, once more bidding him begone.

"Well, I will go," he growled; "but, mind you, there is a reward for him who brings a deer-slayer to justice."

"You can do as you like about earning that," I answered. "It seems all one to you how you get wealth, so that it comes easily."

So he went, looking back now and then to see, I suppose, if I was in earnest. I took my bow from the tree where I had set it, and plucked the arrow from the slain deer at my feet, at which he hastened to put as many tree trunks between me and himself as possible, and I lost sight of him.

I fell to brittling the deer quickly when he was gone, for I was by no means so sure that he would not set the sheriff on me, as he had hinted. I did not think it likely that that quiet old worthy would trouble himself about me, with a battle raging at his very doors, as one might say; but so far he had heard nothing of me, and I could come and go into the town pretty freely when I would, though the chance of some Yorkist from my own country seeing me was an ever-present danger that kept me out of sight as much as possible if I did go. Still there were things that I needed that must be bought there now and then, and it would be hard to have the place closed to me. Now, I thought it just as well to get the deer I had killed to my cave, in case I had to go into hiding; and I was glad that some old distrust of this man Cork had kept me from telling him of it when I first knew him.

That was about two years ago, when I had to fly from Yorkshire with a price on my head as a Lancastrian, while those who had come to take me lighted my way north across the moors by burning my own stronghold, the little Peel tower of which I had been as proud as of the old name of Barvill that I dared own no longer, behind me.

I had taken no part in the strife of the Roses, having enough fighting from time to time with the Scots raiders who had slain my father six years ago. But I had always been brought up to reverence King Henry, and made no secret thereof, which was quite enough to ruin me in the days when York first had the upper hand and meant to keep it.

So at last I had wandered to these Hexham moorlands, where none knew me, and where game was in plenty on hillside and in forest, and whence the rangers and their lords had gone by reason of the wars. Here, too, I had found by chance the cave of which I had spoken, under the slope of Blockhill, and close to the brook that runs in the valley. It was so warm and dry, and so easily hidden, that I bided in it the first winter of my outlawry, and taking kindly to the forest life, as a strong man of twenty-two who loves the open, and has none to think for but himself, will. Here I had bided for a second winter, ranging the country widely in the summer, even as far as the Scottish border, gathering thereby knowledge of the by-paths that was to be useful to others besides myself in time. Maybe I should have joined the company of some Border knight at last, for a good spear is always welcome without question; but there was to be another service for me, as will be seen.

There were other men, outlaws also, whom I would meet in the forest; but being a Barvill, and proud, I had nought much to do with them. Some were men ruined by the wars, like myself, but more were robbers at the best, and outlawed for their misdeeds. These kept away from the town, laying wait for harmless travellers and packmen in the wild passes; but there were other ways of making what money one needed wherewith to buy bread and arrowheads, wine, or clothing, than by robbery, and herein Master Cork saw his chance of profit, if not in any very honest way. He was a small householder on the outskirts of the town, and would buy our stolen deerskins or game at his own prices, and sell them at some distant market, doubtless to his great advantage. Therefore he was useful to me, and I saw him often enough, though, as I say, I always distrusted him.

To-day the woods were full of deer, and I had killed nearer home than usual, for I suppose that the great battle of Hedgley, of which I had heard, had driven them hither in terror. Now, with this fresh battle on hand, our woods would be deserted by them, and therefore I had taken the first chance that came. Thus Cork had stumbled across me first on his way to find some associate for his night's work. He had told me that it was not myself whom he was seeking specially, and made a great show of friendship in telling me his plan. After he had gone, I got my venison to my cave, and cooked some for my supper. Then I sat on the stream bank and watched the birds and beasts for a while before I slept. The sounds of battle had long ceased, and I mind that I heard the cuckoo that evening for the first time that year. It was late, even for the North. Then I went into my cave, built up its mouth in the way I had found the best, and troubled no more about anything.

I suppose that it was an hour after I had gone to sleep, with darkness, when my dog growled and woke me, and I roused at once and quieted him. Then I went to the little opening that I left for fresh air in the stones with which I closed the cave, and listened. At first I heard nothing, though the night was clear and still. There was wind coming, however, for the clouds were racing across the sky under the bright moon. But the dog was not wont to rouse me for nothing, and I was sure that there must be somewhat to find out.

Then as I waited there came a far-off shout, and then, clear through the air, a woman's scream. Then more shouting, and silence.

If it had been shouting only, I should have thought little of it, for I knew that the pursuit of the flying might pass this way. But the woman's voice roused me, and without staying to think, I armed myself, and hurried away towards the place whence the noise seemed to come. An ancient trackway, worn by ages of timber hauling, lay in that direction, and it was likely that some fugitives who had taken it as a road away from the pursuers, might have fallen in with some of the robber outlaws. At least I might be able to help the side that had a woman to protect if things went badly for them.

I went very quickly, knowing the woods so well, but I heard nothing more until I reached a little rise that overlooked the hollow in which the old lane ran. Then the voices, as of men quarrelling, were plain enough now and then to my left as I stood still to listen. The woman's voice was not to be heard among them, however, and I began to think that there was no need for me to trouble about the business. Still, I waited for a few minutes, and then my dog warned me that some one was at hand, and I turned.

A woman was coming straight towards me across a little glade, leading with her a boy, whose feet seemed to fail for weariness, and I surely thought for a moment, as the moonlight glinted on her rich dress and showed her, tall and stately, and seeming unafraid, that I saw a vision of Our Lady, so wondrous looked this one as she neared me unfaltering. For indeed had they but now escaped from the hands of the men I had heard, to meet with myself, armed and wild-looking as I was, with the unkempt locks and beard of forest life, might well have been fresh cause for fear to two such helpless ones. Yet the woman never stayed, though she must have seen me plainly as I saw her. A cloud passed over the moon for a moment, and when the light came again, she was close on me. Then I saw that her dress was torn and disordered, and that she had indeed been in no gentle hands. But for all that, I could do naught but doff my steel cap before her, for she was the most queenly woman that I had ever seen.

Then she spoke to me, low and quickly, drawing the slender, handsome boy before her and towards me.

"Friend, I am Margaret the Queen. This is the son of your king. I charge you with his care--see that you are worthy of such an honour."

And then, as I stared at her in amazement, stepping back a pace, she added, "Hide him in your forest till danger is past, and hereafter his palace shall be free to you--baron of England shall you be if you will. See! Is it fitting that a Prince of Wales should wander with no attendants?"

But I was on one knee before her by this time, needing and thinking of no promise of reward or honour. It was enough that I was asked for help by her who had been, and to me yet was, the highest in the land. And my heart ached that she should have to seek for succour from such as I.

"On my life be it, Queen Margaret," I stammered, "I will give life for you willingly."

But then as the dog growled fiercely at some fresh burst of noise that came from the road, making the young prince shrink from him, I leapt up, rousing to the danger close at hand, for the Queen would be sought for directly.

"Follow me, I pray you, Madam," I said, "it is not far to a safe place. Come, my prince, you are weary; fear not the good hound, but let me carry you."

"Aye, friend, I am aweary," he said, with a little smile, "but I am sorely heavy for you, and you are armed moreover."

But the weight of a slight boy of twelve is nothing, and I took him up, laughing to reassure him. The Queen followed me without a word, and we went back to my place by the way I had come--surely the strangest, saddest little company in all England.

I marvel how our Queen kept up in that rough walk until the cave was reached, but she never faltered. Once I pressed on her the boar spear that I carried, that she might use it as a staff, but she would not have it, and she never so much as put out her hand to my arm when she stumbled over root or jutting rock. It was a rough road for her, but I dared take no path lest we should be more easily followed. And all the way I listened for the voices of men who hunted us, but I heard none.

So we came to my cave without mischance and were safe. I set the half-sleeping prince on a heather-covered bank while I pulled away the stones of its entrance, and the Queen stood by him watching him, and I thought how any other woman had surely sunk down to rest after that weary flight. But she seemed tireless in this as in all else that she took in hand.

When the way was clear, I prayed her to enter, and she took the hand of the prince and led him in without a word, while I followed, hanging the great wild bull's skin that I used as a curtain across the as yet unblocked doorway, that no light might betray the place.

The fire still smouldered in its far corner, where some fathomless cleft in the rock took its smoke far into the heart of the hill and lost it there, and I stirred it to a blaze. I had long ago so screened it with a stone wall from the doorway that I might use it safely, for I had a mind to be in comfort when I spent the winter here. And indeed, to me at least, the cave seemed homelike enough. There was my couch of springy heather, skin-covered and warmly-blanketed, and the flat-topped stones that were my seats and table were set in order, and deerskins were on them also. My bows and quiver and spare arms were on the walls, with an antlered skull or two, and I was used to bare stone walls in my old tower in the bygone days. Yet, as I watched the weary face of the Queen, I knew how wretched all would seem to her.

"It is no fit place for you, Madam," I said, "but it is safe. When daylight comes again your people will be searching for you, and I will meet them and bring them to you, and all will be well."

"They fled from me even now," she said in a cold voice, "and here I do not even know the name of the friend who has come by chance to me."

"My name is Richard Barvill, Madam," I said--and it was good to own the honest old name once more--"I will say, even before my Queen, that I have no cause to be ashamed of it, being a forest dweller only because of the troubles."

This I added, lest the thought of being in the hands of some wrong-doer might cause her trouble presently when I left her and passed beyond her sight. One could not tell what fears of treachery might come into her mind.

"Because of the troubles," she repeated softly, "and they say that I am the main cause of them all. Yet I have my share in bearing them for his sake," and she looked towards the young prince, who was now asleep in earnest on my couch, where he had thrown himself at once when we came in.

I made no answer, for all this was beyond me, though I did think that now perhaps for the first time the Queen understood rightly the plight of many whom the wars had ruined. Instead of replying I busied myself in bringing out and setting on my table the best food that I had in the place, and then stood to wait her pleasure. There was cold venison and good wheaten bread and one flask of red wine, if the platters were wooden and the cups of pewter, and it was no bad meal for one who was hungry with a forest hunger.

When the Queen saw that all was ready she rose up from the seat she had taken beside the fire and thanked me as she roused the prince. Then I served them both as best I knew how, and presently the Queen spoke to me of what we might do next.

"Now I am outlaw and forester even as yourself, friend," she said with a wan smile. "For once I have no plans in my mind, for I am helpless here. Tell me what we can do."

Now I had been thinking of that even as we crossed the forest, and there were one or two things that I must know. So I begged leave to ask her somewhat, and she gave it.

Then I learnt how she had fled from the battle with but few attendants, and those of no rank, carrying with her some of the crown jewels and other treasure, and meaning to make for the Scotch border. In the old lane her servants had fled at the first attack, and both she and the prince had been dragged from their horses and roughly handled for the sake of their jewels. Then their captors had forgotten them in a quarrel over the treasure in the waggon, and she had been able to slip away with the prince.

"Then, friend, we met with you. I thought you another of the robbers, but a Queen learns to read faces, and there was that in yours which told me that I could trust you. So I am here in safety--and some day you shall know that Margaret of Anjou does not forget her friends."

"Queen Margaret," I said, "there are many things to be seen before I deserve such a name from you, but I will try to earn it."

And then, because I did not rightly know what else to say, I asked if these plunderers were Yorkists.

"Outlaws rather," she answered decidedly. "York's men had not let me escape, for to take me had been worth more than treasure to them. Nor was there one who wore the badge of the white rose. I heard the name of their leader--they called him Cork--and I shall not forget him."

So this man must have followed the treasure, if not the Queen, from the field, and if he knew her there might be trouble in store. But I saw that if ever the red rose bloomed again Cork's case would be a hard one.

But at least the Yorkists were not scouring the woods in search of the Queen, and that was good hearing. Probably I was the only man who knew that she was in them, unless Cork guessed that the woman who had slipped through his hands were she. If he did so, however, he would be likely to keep the knowledge to himself, in order to have all the credit of what he would expect to be an easy capture presently.

"Madam," I said, "I think that there will be no great search for you as yet. The Yorkists will believe you to have escaped, and your servants will take word that you are a prisoner. It will be a long day before those mistakes are found out. The army of York will pass on, and your people will scatter, and go north in little parties, and I shall meet with them. Here you are safe, and you may sleep in peace, even were you to hear voices of men searching for you close at hand, for the secret of this cave is mine only. Now I must go, and I pray you to be content until I return with news in the morning. I must close the cave carefully, and thereafter answer no call save that of my name, Barvill, for that is known here to none save yourself."

Then I knelt and kissed her hand, and was going, but she asked me, very kindly--

"Friend Barvill, what of yourself? We have taken your place, and for our sakes again you are homeless."

"I have other hiding-places, if I need them," I answered, "but now I have work to do, for your sake and the prince's."

I went out of the cave and built up the doorway, as I was wont when I left it for some long time, with the Queen's words of thanks in my ears. More than all else that might bind me to her was this, that not so much as by a look did she show one sign of distrust of me or of my word.

When my work was done, so that even from a yard or two away one might not tell that any cave was there, I went away and left my dog in a hollow tree that was one of my hiding-places to which he was used, and then took my way to Hexham, to learn what I might.

It was close on midnight when I came there, and yet the town was alive with men, as if it were fair-time. Every house was lighted up, and great fires, round which were gathered groups of noisy men, burned in the market-place and in the wider streets. One would have thought that all the army was gathered there to drink after victory, but these were only stragglers, for the camp was on the battlefield, some miles to the southward. All of these men wore the badge of the white rose, however, in some form or other, and to mix with them I must do likewise.

When I found that out, I had not far to seek for what I needed. A man lay in a dark doorway sleeping after overmuch ale, and I borrowed from him. He did not so much as stir when I took the twisted scrap of rag that stood for the proud rose of York from his arm and pinned it to my own.

So marked, I went boldly to the market-place, and followed a press of men into the chief inn of the place in order to get a can of ale, that I might be welcome at one of the fires, where I should best hear what was to be told. Inside the tavern all was confusion, the good old host and his tapster being hard put to with a noisy crowd thronging them for ale that could not be drawn fast enough. I knew the old man by repute, but well I knew his orphan niece, fair Mistress Annot, whose face, when she stayed at a mill, where I was welcome, made me feel my loneliness overmuch at times, for she did not scorn a forest man with whom her cousin, the miller, had friendly dealings. So as the throng shouted and pushed round me, the thought of the girl's terror with this wild mob in the house came over me. But I could do nothing for her, and presently I got a can of ale and went out and across to a big fire, and sat down in a place left vacant when a man rose. None heeded me, for there was constant coming and going.

There were many things that were not all of revelry after victory that I saw as I sat and listened. One or two houses had been wrecked--those of known Lancastrians, as one would think--and one was burning out, fired early in the day. Many times I saw parties bringing in wounded men, and more than once a hush fell on those who drank and wrangled, as the sound of a little silver bell came down the street, and a priest and his servers passed, bearing the last sacrament to some man who had been brought here to die. There were more things to be seen also, and it was a heavy tale that I must take back with morning. The Lancastrian forces had been utterly scattered, and some said that the King had been taken. The great Duke of Somerset had been taken and beheaded here that evening, and it would seem that most of the Queen's best followers had been slain or were prisoners. The only good hearing was that the Queen was thought to have escaped altogether, and that the army was to march on Bamborough Castle at once, for it was her best stronghold, and a likely rallying place. The way for her flight would soon be clear, therefore.

Then, all in a moment, I forgot even the Queen, for from the tavern came the noise of a riot, and some leapt up and ran thither, I with the fear for Annot again. Men came tumbling out of the doorway, and I asked a grey-haired and well-armed man, who almost upset me in his haste, what was amiss.

"The butts are all empty," he said, "and the sorry knaves have struck down the host for telling them so--have slain him, I think. Then some struck his slayer, and now there is fighting enough."

The man was plainly an honest soldier, and sober, and I told him, therefore, that there was a lone girl in the house, who would be frightened, adding, "Maybe they will wreck the house yet."

"Likely enough, for they are camp followers, with none over them. Do you know the house?"

"Not well, but the yard is down yon lane, and the back-door opens into it. I know the girl's friends, if you will help me to get her away."

He nodded, and we went into the lane, which was empty now, by reason of the noise in the market-place, which had drawn all thither. We reached and tried the back-door, but it was locked, and now there was a sound as of wild wrecking in the house that made it useless to knock, and told us to hurry. So I put my shoulder to the door and it flew open, letting us into a long passage, from which opened larders and the like, and at the end of which was a great inner door, which plainly led to the guest room, where the riot was going on. And as the moonlight streamed in I saw a white figure at this door. It was Annot herself; and she was putting up the heavy bar that was used to keep house and tavern apart, as one might say, if the great room were full of wild drovers and the like at fair-time.

She turned in terror when the door burst open, but my companion spoke quickly to reassure her.

"Eh, my lass, that is well done, and bravely thought of! But the place is over-noisy for you now, and we have come to take you into a safer. See, here is a friend of yours, if I make no mistake."

He had almost to shout, so wild was the clamour on the other side of the door, and though she answered, we could not hear what she said; but I saw that she knew me at least.

"Get her away," my comrade howled in my ear; "they will be round to the back directly."

Then blows fell on the door that had just been barred, and Annot started away from it towards us. And at that my comrade, not in the least knowing who this girl was, and most likely thinking her but a servant, went close to her.

"Come away, lass, I tell thee. The master is slain, and the knaves will likely burn the house."

She turned to me with a blanched face, as if to ask if this could be true, and I could only nod in assent, and I thought that she was about to faint; so did my comrade, and we took her arms and led her out into the yard, where the noise was less.

"Come, Mistress Annot," I said, "it may not be so bad as that, but it is true that you must leave here. Let us take you to the miller, and I will come back for your uncle."

"I am frightened," she said, "and cannot rightly understand. Were you sent for me?"

"Ay--sent--both of us," answered the soldier promptly. "Miller could not come himself, in times like these. Quickly, mistress, or they will catch us."

"I will go with you," she said, "but it is cold, and I would find a cloak."

But there was no time for that now. The barred door was splintering as men swung a bench against it, and that sight decided her. She bade us lead her, and we hurried out into the lane, and away down it in the direction opposite to that in which the market-place lay. Across that end of the lane the crowd that the scuffle had attracted was gathering thickly, and for that reason, perhaps, the lane was empty. But I knew that it would not be long before outsiders would take part in wrecking a tavern, and then a rush would be made to the back, of course.

Outside the gate the soldier halted.

"Any more lasses in the house?" he asked.

"They have all gone," Annot answered. "I and uncle, and the man, were all who stayed when the cannons began this morning. The rest left us."

"Thy uncle? eh! poor lass, poor lass! come away," he said on that. "Where do we take her, comrade?"

"Out of the town, to a mill a mile or more eastward down the river. It will be safe going enough, for we can get away by by-lanes."

So we went on hastily, meeting few people at that hour in the dark alleys of the town, and were soon across a breach in the old useless walls, and in the quiet meadows along the Tyne side. Annot walked quickly and firmly enough, though she was hard put to it not to weep now and then.

We had hardly gone the breadth of two meadows beyond the last cottages, when a trumpet call rang sharply through the night, and the soldier pricked up his ears.

"Ho, comrade, I am wanted, and must get back. That call is for guard changing, and my name is never missing on roll-call," he said. "Good luck go with you, you are safe now. Forgive me, pretty lass, if I told you bad news over-roughly just now--but you can but ken the worst once."

With that he nodded to me, and was off, but he turned to call once more, "Name of John Sykes of Birkbeck's company. Bring me word how you fare."

There were more half-lost words about ale-drinking over the adventure, but he was running fast, and I hardly listened, for Annot was speaking to me, calling me by the name I had taken when my own was not to be used any longer. They were wont to call me "Barvill of the Peel" in the old days, and so I kept some remembrance of the name, as it were.

"Master Peel," she said, "is all true that the soldier said?"

"True it is, Mistress Annot, I fear. But presently I will go back and find that out for certain."

She sobbed a little, and hurried on, and it was not long before we saw the mill, and heard the rush of the water through its sluices.

As one might have expected, there were no lights to be seen about the house, but when we came to the door, we found that open, which seemed strange, and, to me at least, of ill omen at such a time of trouble. But Annot, who knew the ways of the place, went into the dark entry and called softly. There was no answer, and she came out to me again.

"I suppose that miller has gone to see to the sluices, leaving the door open, as he often will. He will be back anon. I will go up to the wife's room and wake her, that she may not be frightened." And then she added, "I think that I have much to thank you for, Master Peel, but I must not stay now."

I tried to say that no thanks were needed, but she was gone into the darkness of the stairway, and I would not call after her. But I lingered, for I did not like the silence and open door at all. And I was right in doing so, for in a few minutes she was back, calling to me with fear in her voice.

She had found a lantern in some accustomed place, and had lighted it, and in its dim light I saw that she was more terrified than even in the town.

"Master Peel," she cried breathlessly; "the house is empty and all in disorder. What can be wrong, and what shall I do?"

It was plain to me then that the poor folk had fled from some raid of the Yorkist troops. Possibly the house had been searched for fugitives, and the miller arrested, with some unfortunate found on the place, as a sympathiser. But I would not say so at once.

"Let us make certain," I said; "maybe all are in the mill."

We went round the buildings and called, but there was no answer anywhere. And all the while I was thinking what I could do now for this poor girl who was thus dependent on me. Perhaps she had other friends in the town, but, if they lived in the broad streets, I dared not take her back through a mob whose ways would not grow quieter as night went on. If she had any other refuge outside the town it were well.

But she had not; nor was there any house to which she dared go in Hexham now. I had to ask her this directly, for it was plain that the mill was deserted. And I will say that she met the trouble bravely.

"I will bide here," she said. "Mayhap they will come back now that all is quiet."

At first that plan seemed good, but then I remembered that the first place where the purveyors for the army would seek for forage of all sorts would be in a miller's stores. There would be no real refuge here for more than the few hours of darkness left. Then, of course, as I thought of keeping guard here, the remembrance of what my cave held came back to me plainly. I cannot say that it had ever been forgotten, but this trouble had seemed but a passing one. Now that I found it more than that, the other duty came forward again.

Even as I realised that I owed all to the Queen first, I saw what I might do both for her and Annot. The girl had trusted me, and I would trust her entirely, for with her as an attendant our Queen would at least feel her captivity less.

"Annot," I said, "there is one place to which I can take you where you will be safe till all is quiet again, and there you will be with a lady who is a fugitive like yourself from these people."

She looked at me eagerly, and answered at once--

"Take me there, I pray you, Master Peel. I trust myself to you in all things."

"Ay, and now the trust must be altogether on my side, for, if I take you to this lady, I am putting the greatest of secrets in your charge."

"If some poor lady is hiding alone, let me go to her," she answered; "then I may feel that my own trouble has brought help to another. Truly I have trusted you, good friend, for, from the moment we came here, I knew that you could not have been sent for me, as the soldier said."

"I will answer with trust for trust," I said. "Come, we will borrow some cloak or blanket from the mill, that you may go warmly."

Then we went in. The place had not been plundered, and I gathered things that would be of use to the Queen also. I was glad of the chance of thus getting food and other comforts without having to ask for them, and so, perhaps, drawing suspicion on me. At last I asked Annot if the miller had any wine by some chance.

"Plenty," she said, wondering; "but we must not take that."

"You may need it," I said, "but the lady will need it more. And she is one to whom nothing must be refused."

"Almost do you speak as if she were the Queen herself."

"I am speaking of the Queen," I said plainly.

"And she is alone!" the girl said, with wide sad eyes. "Oh, had you asked me to go to her, even from my uncle's house, I would have gone."