Take Courage (35 page)

“Then why are you seeking Lister?” I pressed him.

“I hope he may guide me,” began David.

“Since when did David Clarkson, born and bred in Fairgap, need a man to guide him out of Bradford?” I cried angrily. “You are lying to me, David!”

“Well, you are too shrewd for me, Pen,” admitted David quietly. “Listen. I heard the Cavaliers who took our fellows say that the Earl of Newcastle has ordered no quarter to be given to Bradford to-morrow when the town is taken. He says: Bradford gave Ferrand no quarter, and they shall have what they gave. He has charged his soldiers to kill every man in the town.”

“I do not believe Englishmen will be so barbarous as to carry out such an order,” I told him steadily, though my heart beat fast for horror.

“Perhaps not,” said David mildly. “But that is the Earl's order. You had best take the children out to The Breck, Pen, and send word for help to Mr. Ferrand. Tomorrow will be a dire day for Bradford. Meanwhile, I will try to get out of Bradford with Lister. If they find Lister, if they know him as the one who killed Francis—I think I need not finish my sentence; you understand me. Lister is a danger, not only to himself, but to the town.”

“And which side of the leaguer were you when you heard all this?” I demanded harshly. “I know you, David. You have thrown away your safety and come back into Bradford to save Lister, and I cannot bear it!”

“Hush, here he is,” said David.

Sure enough he came lolloping towards us; we knew him by his hair, which showed its rusty hue even in this dim light. He was humming a psalm, with his head down and his hands in his pockets. His freckled face fell when he saw David, and he hurried up to us. As usual nowadays, he kept his face turned from me.

“Are you not gone, Mester David?” he cried in distress. “I thought you and Mester John were well on the road to Leeds by this time?”

“My brother Thorpe has broken through the enemy's leaguer with Sir Thomas, but the charge was so hot that I came back again,” lied David firmly. “And now I know not what to do to get out of the town. The Cavaliers are closing in upon us. Can you direct me by some lane or bye-way, Joseph?”

It was sad and strange to see how Lister's ugly face brightened. “Aye! Aye!” he cried gladly. “I can lead you a safe way—I know all the bye-ways in the neighbourhood, Mester David.”

“David!” I protested, and ceased, choking.

David turned a stern glance on me. “Do you not wish us to leave Bradford, Pen?” he said.

“Pray, Mistress, give me leave to go with David,” begged Lister eagerly,- speaking to me directly for the first time since he killed Francis. “I will guide him safe—I know where we can wade over the beck, so we need not cross any of the bridges. The Lord will guide our feet into the way of peace. Mester John told me I was to take my orders from you now. Pray give me leave to go with David.”

There was a long silence. I thought of Francis, of Lister, of David; of love, of hatred, of revenge; I thought of that word of God which says: Judge not, that ye be not judged; I thought of the day when John said to me: “Thou hast a very gentle heart, Penninah.”

“Well,” I said brokenly, at length: “Go, and God be with you.”

“God bless you, Pen,” said David. He added in a low tone: “See that you warn the others.”

“This way, Mester David,” said Lister eagerly, and he led David down to the side of Bradford beck.

A soft heavy thud from above us startled me; the last woolpack, scorched and torn, had fallen from the steeple to the ground; its cord was still swinging.

Then i knew what I must do. I went quickly back to the inn, and took Lady Fairfax's little case in my hand, and slipped out without anyone seeing me—the boys were fast asleep—and set out for Boiling Hall.

At the bridge I met a company of the enemy's foot, but since I had no fear of them, for indeed I would have been glad to die, I walked quietly by and they did not challenge me. It was so with all the soldiers whom I met on the way, though there were many; I pulled up the hood of my cloak to conceal my face, and walked steadily on, and though one or two made lewd joked about my being abroad at that hour, they did not hinder me or stay me. So I came to the gates of Boiling Hall, a very fine tall large house standing in parkland with handsome spreading trees. The birds were just beginning their first twitterings as I reached there, I remember. No one took notice of me till I came close up to the house, when a couple of scarlet-coated guards from a troop there lowered their pikes at me, though quite good-humouredly, and asked me my business.

“I am maid to Lady Fairfax,” I said, “and have brought her dressing-case that she sent for.”

“I have heard something of that, I believe,” said one of the soldiers, rubbing his unshaven chin and looking at the case thoughtfully. “There was a great to-do over it last night when my lady was brought in.”

My heart leaped with joy, and I thought: the hand of the Lord is with me; but I stayed quiet and still, not trying to hurry the man's decision.

“Well—come with me, mistress, and I'll take you to my
officer,” he said at length, and he led me into the Hall by the back way.

Whether the soldiers there had stayed up through the night because of the night's assault, or had risen early for a new morning attack, I do not know, but the place was full of them, all awake and laughing and shouting. My trooper took me into the great hall, a room larger than any I had ever seen, very high, with long high windows all along one side of it, so that the room was very light; across the opposite side, high up, I spied a gallery, which ran, I supposed, to the bedchambers. This great high hall was also full of redcoats; some eating and drinking at a huge long table, other polishing their pikes and muskets, others again gaming. All seemed to be talking as loudly as they could, swearing and laughing, and I was much frightened by the din and the confusion.

“Wait here, mistress,” said my trooper, and he very kindly up-ended a buffet full of coats and breast-plates, so that they all slid off to the ground with a fearful clangour, and gave me the buffet to sit on. A group in shirt-sleeves who were gaming on the floor near by looked round and shouted at him for doing so, and seeing me seemed inclined to bandy jokes with me, but the trooper, who spoke in a kind of drawling way so that I hardly understood what he said—I suppose he came from a far-off part of England—bade them mind their manners, for I was maid to Lady Fairfax. I trembled lest there should be some lad from the neighbourhood there who would know me, but God was with me, and I was not recognised. The trooper knocked at a door nearby and opened it, and a great burst of noise, shouts and laughter, came out, and a smell of wine, and I could see that the room was crowded with captains, lolling in their chairs, some with their scarlet coats off, drinking and taking their ease. I shrank back into my corner, for I was much more afraid of the officers than of the men, ordinary common folk seeming to me usually kindly unless especially provoked.

“Well, moon-face, what dost thou want so early in the morning?” called one of these captains.

At once all the officers fell to singing:
So early in the morning, before the break of day
, beating time on the table with their tankards.

“There is some woman here, maid to Lady Fairfax, with a case!” shouted my trooper through the din, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in my direction.

“What? I can't hear a word of thy discourse, moon-face,” shouted the officer. “Peace, friends, peace! Or we shall have the Earl thumping on his floor again and sending down a request that we moderate our noise.”

This somewhat sobered them, and the din subsided enough for the man to be heard when he repeated:

“There is a woman here, says she is maid to Lady Fairfax, come with a case.”

“Oho! A woman!” exclaimed the officer. “Is she worth looking at, moon-face?”

“Aye, sir, she is quite an eye-full,” replied the trooper, laughing: “But I judge she is not the kind to care for glances from the gentry.”

“Give me my coat,” said the officer with decision, and he stretched out his hand for it.

But luckily for me the other officers joked with him and would not let him have it, passing it down from hand to hand and throwing it across the table, and I in sheer fright gathered all my strength and made an attempt upon my enterprise. I slipped behind the soldier and ran up the stairs unseen. Upstairs I found various branching passages lined with panelled wood, all looking alike and very confusing,, but I strove to judge which room would be above the one where the officers were carousing, and the hand of the Lord guided me, and I saw a servant come out of a door bearing a scarlet coat very much laced, and when he had passed by, I shrinking into an alcove the while, I stepped out and pushed on the door and it opened and I entered the chamber, and so I found myself where I sought to be, namely in the presence of the Earl of Newcastle.

I knew it was he who sat there in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a long pipe and reading from a book of Latin poetry, for
he was in truth a very fine gentleman. He had an abundance of light brown hair, not golden like my love's, but still fair and silky enough, and very much curled artificially, dressed low over his forehead and curling thickly in his neck. He had a handsome, aquiline, dissipated face, with very bright hazel eyes which wore a look of condescending amusement, and a curling brown moustache and beard, very smooth and neatly trimmed. At first sight he appeared quite a young man, not much older than Francis, but when I looked again I saw the lines across his forehead and the pouches beneath his eyes and a few threads of grey in his hair, and I judged him to be in middle life, between forty-five and fifty probably. His shirt was of the whitest linen, with the finest and handsomest lace at the wrists that I had ever seen.

I threw back my hood.

“My lord,” said I.

He started and turned to me, and at once that look came on his face which a sensual man wears when a personable woman appears to show him special favour. When one loves the man who wears it, one perhaps loves the look; otherwise, to a modest woman it is very hateful. The Earl rose to his feet, wearing that look and smiling, and he made me a very low bow, mocking me, and said:

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, madam?”

“I have business with you, my lord,” I said, “concerning the^town of Bradford.”

At this his face changed; he frowned and became the commander.

“Who are you?” he said.

“I am Penninah Thorpe, wife to John Thorpe of Little Holroyd,” I told him.

He frowned again. “I have heard of your husband, mistress,” he said. “He is a pestilential Puritan, a purveyor of faction, the follower of Fairfax and the core of the defence of Bradford. If he were here I would shoot him out of hand as a most damnable traitor to His Majesty.”

“I have no fear for my husband,” I said coldly. “He is a man well able to take care of himself.”

“How came you here?” demanded the Earl.

“I brought this case to Lady Fairfax,” I said, showing it.

At this the Earl smiled a little. “Well, I am grateful to you for that at least, Mrs. Thorpe,” said he: “For I have heard enough of that case this night to last me a lifetime. Lay it here.”

He motioned with his hand towards the table where he had been sitting; it was covered with books and papers, and at one side lay a viol.

“And now, good-day, madam,” said the Earl curtly. “You shall be rewarded for bringing the case.”

“Rewarded!” I exclaimed, stepping back, an angry colour in my face. “I want no reward, my lord. I used the case as a means of access to your lordship.”

“Well, tell your errand,” said the Earl impatiently. “Tell your errand quickly.”

“I am sorry to keep you from Vergil, my lord,” said I, glancing at his book: “But I will not do so for long. I hear you have ordered that, for Captain Ferrand's sake, no quarter shall be given to Bradford. I have come to ask you to pity Bradford and revoke the order.”

“I have given the order and will not revoke it,” said the Earl, speaking quickly, with a hard decision. “Captain Ferrand was cruelly murdered. Bradford gave him no quarter—it shall have what it gave. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, Mrs. Thorpe—as a Puritan doubtless you know your Bible.”

“But you are exacting a hundredfold repayment,” I told him quietly.

“The whole population of Bradford is not worth Francis Ferrand's little finger,” cried the angry Earl. “He was a bright spirit, quick and loving; there was a kind of glory about him, he gave forth air and fire. I ever likened him in my mind to Shakespeare's Mercutio—but as a Puritan you are doubtless not a playgoer, mistress. That is his viol,” he said, his voice changing as he pointed to the instrument on the table.

“Do you suppose we in Bradford do not grieve for Francis?” I said steadily. “He was my husband's cousin. We knew him when young; we all loved him. He was killed in error, out of ignorance not cruelty, and Bradford mourned his death.”

“That is a parcel of words for children,” said the Earl impatiently. “Bradford mourned for him! Indeed! I tell you,” he said, his voice quite breaking: “I loved that boy as a son.”

“I loved him as the father of the child in my womb,” said I.

There was a silence. The Earl stared at me, amazed.

“Mean you to tell me,” he began diffidently; then, reading the truth in my face, he gave a hard laugh and twisted his moustache and said: “It seems your husband is not so well able to look after himself as you say, mistress!”

I stood and supported the insult, which in truth I deserved. After a while I found my voice.

“I love Francis Ferrand,” I said. “I have always loved him since I was a child, and when I am an old woman I shall still love him. I saw him killed. But why let his death breed further desolation? To burn and slay in Bradford will not restore him to life, but only make others equally wretched with you and me. Pity poor Bradford!”