Back Aa

No Quarter!

Close

<h3 class="chapter">Chapter Forty Seven.</h3> <h4 class="event">Old Comrades.</h4> “Well, Dick, for a man who’s just captured a city, you look strangely downhearted—more like as if you’d been captured yourself.” It was Colonel Robert Kyrle who made the odd observation; he to whom it was addressed being Colonel Sir Richard Walwyn. The time was between midnight and morning, some two hours after Monmouth had succumbed to their strategic coup-de-main; the place Kyrle’s own quarters, whither he had conducted his old comrade-in-arms to give him lodgment for the rest of the night. Snug quarters they were, in every way well provided. Kyrle was a man of money, and liked good living whether he fought for King or for Parliament. A table was between them, on which were some remains of a supper, with wines of the best, and they were quaffing freely, as might be expected of soldiers after a fight or fatiguing march. “Yet to you,” added Kyrle, “Massey owes the taking of Monmouth.” “Rather say to yourself, Kyrle. Give the devil his due,” returned the knight, with a peculiar smile. Notwithstanding his serious mood at the moment, he could not resist a jest so opportune. He knew it would not offend his old comrade, as it did not. On the contrary, Kyrle seemed rather to relish it, with a light laugh rejoining,— “Little fear of him you allude to being cheated of his dues this time. No doubt for all that’s been done I’ll get my full share of credit, however little creditable to myself. They’ll call me all sorts of names, the vilest in the Cavalier vocabulary; and, God knows, it’s got a good stock of them. What care I? Not the shaking of straw. My conscience is clear, and my conduct guided by motives I’m not ashamed of—never shall be. You know them, Walwyn?” “I do, and respect them. I was just in the act of explaining things to Massey up by the Buckstone when your letter came—that carried in the cadger’s wooden leg.” “Most kind of you, Dick; though nothing more than I expected. Soon as I heard of your being at the High Meadow, I made up my mind to join you there, even if I went alone as a common deserter. Never was man more disgusted with a cause than I with Cavalierism. It stinks of the beerhouse and bagnio; here in Monmouth spiced with Papistry—no improvement to its nasty savour. But the place will smell sweeter now. I’ll make it. Massey has told me I’m to have command.” “You are the man for it,” said the knight approvingly. “And I am glad he has given it to you. Nothing more than you’re entitled to, after what you’ve done.” “Ah! ’tis you who did everything—planned everything. What clever strategy your thinking of such a ruse!” “Not half so clever as your carrying it out.” “Well, Dick, between us we did the trick neatly, didn’t we?” “Nothing could have been better. But how near it came to miscarrying! When they flung that Cornet in your teeth I almost gave it up.” “I confess to some misgiving myself then. It looked awkward for a while.” “That indeed. And how you got out of it! Your tale of his cowardice, and threat to make short work with him, were so well affected I could scarce keep from bursting into laughter. But what a simpleton that fellow who had command of the bridge guard! Was he one of those we cut down, think you?” “I fancy he was, and fear it. Among my late comrades there were many I liked less than he.” “And the Cornet, to whom you gave credit for making such good use of his heels. Has he escaped?” “I’ve no doubt he’s justified what I said of him by using them again. He’s one that has a way of it. I suspect a great many of them got off on the other side—more than we’ve netted. But we shall know in the morning when we muster the birds taken, and beat up the covers where some will be in hiding. Hopelessly for them, as I’m acquainted with every hole and corner in Monmouth.” There was a short interval of silence, while Kyrle, as host, leant over the table, took up a flagon of sack, and replenished their empty cups. On again turning to his guest he could see that same expression, which had led to him thinking him downhearted. Quite unlike what face of man should be wearing who had so late gained glory—reaped a very harvest of laurels—on more than one battlefield. The exciting topics just discoursed upon had for a time chased it away, but there it was once more. “Bless me, Walwyn! what is the matter with you?” asked Kyrle, as he pushed the refilled goblet towards him. “You could not look more sadly solemn if I were Prince Rupert, and you my prisoner. Well, old comrade,” he went on, without waiting for explanation, “if what’s troubling you be a secret, I shan’t press you to answer. A love affair, I suppose, so won’t say another word.” “It is a love affair in a way.” “Well, Walwyn! you’re the last man I’d have looked for to get his heart entangled—” “You mistake, Kyrle. It has nothing to do with my heart—in the sense you’re thinking of.” “Whose heart then, or hearts? For there must be a pair of them.” “You know young Trevor?” “I know all the Trevors—at least by repute.” “He I refer to is Eustace—son of Sir William, by Abergavenny.” “Ah! him I’m not personally acquainted with; though he’s been here for several days—in prison. Lingen’s men took him at Hollymead House, near Ruardean; brought him on to Monmouth on their way to Beachley; and going back have carried him with them to Goodrich Castle. They left but yesterday, late in the evening. He’s got a wound, I believe.” “Yes. It’s about that I’m uneasy. Can you tell me anything as to the nature of it? Dangerous, think you?” “That I can’t say, not having seen him myself. Some one spoke of his arm being in a sling. Likely it’s but a sword cut, or the hack of a halbert. But why are you so concerned about him, Dick? He’s no relative of yours.” “He’s dearer to me than any relative I have, Kyrle. I love him as I would a brother. Besides, one, in whom I am interested, loves him in a different way.” “Ah, yes! the lady of course; prime source and root of all evil.” “In the present case the source of something good, however. But for the lady, in all likelihood Monmouth would still be under Royalist rule—nay, I may say surely would.” “How so, Walwyn? What had she to do with the taking of Monmouth?” “A great deal—everything. She was the instigator; her motive you may guess.” “I see; to get young Trevor out of prison. Well!” “I had some difficulty in convincing Massey the thing was possible; and, but for her intercession with him, I might have failed doing so. Our success at Beachley, however, settled it; especially when I laid before him the scheme we’ve been so fortunate in accomplishing.” “Well, we should thank the lady for it. May I know who she is?” “Certainly. The daughter of Ambrose Powell, of Hollymead.” “Ah! That explains why Trevor was there when taken?” “In a way, it does.” “I’ve but slight acquaintance with Powell, myself; though, as neighbours, we were always on friendly terms. He and his family are now in Gloucester, are they not?” “They are. For a time they stayed at Bristol—up to the surrender.” “Luckily they’re not there now. A sweet place that for anything in the shape of a young lady. Master Powell may thank his good star for getting him and his out of it. Two daughters he has, if I remember rightly, with names rather singular—Sabrina and Vaga?” “They are so named.” “With whom is young Trevor in relations?” “The younger, Vaga. Poor girl! she’ll be terribly disappointed when she hears of his having been carried on out of our reach, and so near being rescued!” “Out of our reach!” said Kyrle, an odd expression coming over his features, as if some thought had struck him. “Is that so sure?” “Why not? He’s in Goodrich Castle. You don’t think it possible for us to take it?” “Not at present; though, by-and-by, it may be within the possibilities. No man wishes more than I to see the proud pile razed to the ground, and Henry Lingen hanged over the ruins. Many the fright he has given my poor father with his cowardly threats. But I hope getting quits with him before the game’s at an end.” “What chance then of rescuing Trevor? Have you thought of any?” “I have. And not such a hopeless one either. You’re willing to risk something to get him free?” “Anything! My life, if need be.” “That risk will be called for; mine too, if we make the attempt I’m thinking of.” “An attempt! Tell me what it is. For heaven’s sake, Kyrle, don’t keep me in suspense!” “It’s this, then. Lingen, it appears, don’t intend lodging any prisoners in Goodrich Castle. Since the affair at Beachley he has some fear of his castle being besieged; and in a siege the more mouths the worse for him. By the merest accident I heard all this yesterday; and that the party he took away from here will be sent on to Hereford under escort first thing to-morrow morning—that is this morning, since it’s now drawing up to it.” “I think I comprehend you, Kyrle.” “You’d be dull if you didn’t, Walwyn.” “You mean for us to strike out along the Hereford Road, and intercept the escort?” “Just so. ’Twill be venturing into the enemy’s ground dangerously far; but with a bold dash we may do it.” “We will do it!” “What about leave from Massey? Do you think there will be any difficulty in our getting that?” “I don’t anticipate any. In my case he can’t object. My command is independent of him; the troop my own; and, though now numbering little over a hundred, they are Foresters, and I’ve no fear to match them against twice their count of Lingen’s Lancers—the gentlemen of Hereford, as they style themselves.” “Then you agree to it? We go if Massey gives permission?” “I go, whether he gives it or not. In fact, I don’t feel much caring to ask him.” “Egad! that may be the best way, and I’m willing to risk it too. Suppose we slip out without saying a word? Time’s everything. Our only chance with the escort will be to take them by surprise—an ambuscade. For that we’ll have to be well along the Hereford road before daylight. I know the very spot; but we must be into the saddle at once.” “Then at once let us into it!” <hr /></div> <div class="page-break"></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2