Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “What have I to forgive?” he asked.

  “The thing that I did in the matter of that letter.”

  “You poor child,” said he, smiling gently upon her, “you did it in self-defence.”

  “Yet say that you forgive me — say it before you go!” she begged him.

  He considered her gravely a moment. “To what end,” he asked, “do you imagine that I have talked so much? To the end that I might show you that however I may have wronged you I have at the last made some amends; and that for the sake of this, the truest proof of penitence, I may have your forgiveness ere I go.”

  She was weeping softly. “It was an ill day on which we met,” she sighed.

  “For you — aye.”

  “Nay — for you.

  “We’ll say for both of us, then,” he compromised. “See, Ruth, your cousin grows weary, and I have a couple of comrades who are no doubt impatient to be gone. It may not be good for us to tarry in these parts. Some amends I have made; but there is one crowning wrong which I have done you for which there is but one amend to make.” He paused. He steadied himself before continuing. In his attempt to render his voice cold and commonplace he went near to achieving harshness. “It may be that this crackbrained rebellion of which the torch is already alight will, if it does no other good in England, at least make a widow of you. When that has come to pass, when I have thus repaired the wrong I did you, I hope you’ll bear me as kindly as may be in your thought. Good-bye, my Ruth! I would you might have loved me. I sought to force it.” He smiled ever so wanly. “Perhaps that was my mistake. It is an ill thing to eat one’s hay while it is grass.” He raised to his lips the little gloved hand that still rested on his wrist. “God keep you, Ruth!” he murmured.

  She sought to answer him, but something choked her; a sob was all she achieved. Had he caught her to him in that moment there is little doubt but that she had yielded. Perhaps he knew it; and knowing it kept the tighter rein upon desire. She was as metal molten in the crucible, to be moulded by his craftsman’s hands into any pattern that he chose. But the crucible was the crucible of pity, not of love; that, too, he knew, and, knowing it, forbore.

  He dropped her hand, doffed his hat, and, wheeling his horse about, touched it with the spur and rode back towards the thicket where his friends awaited him. As he left her, she too wheeled about, as if to follow him. She strove to command her voice that she might recall him; but at that same moment Trenchard, hearing his returning hoofs, thrust out into the road with Vallancey following at his heels. The old player’s harsh voice reached her where she stood, and it was querulous with impatience.

  “What a plague do you mean, dallying here at such a time, Anthony?” he cried, to which Vallancey added: “In God’s name, let us push on.”

  At that she checked her impulse — it may even be that she mistrusted it. She paused, lingering undecided for an instant; then, turning her horse once more, she ambled up the slope to rejoin Diana.

  CHAPTER XIII. “PRO RELIGIONE ET LIBERTATE”

  The evening was far advanced when Mr. Wilding and his two companions descended to Uplyme Common from the heights whence as they rode they had commanded a clear view of the fair valley of the Axe, lying now under a thin opalescent veil of evening mist.

  They had paused at Ilminster for fresh horses, and there Wilding had paid a visit to one of his agents from whom he had procured a hundred guineas. Thence they had come south at a sharp pace, and with little said. Wilding was moody and thoughtful, filled with chagrin at this unconscionable rashness of the man upon whom all his hopes were centred. As they cantered briskly across Uplyme Common in the twilight they passed several bodies of countrymen, all heading for the town, and one group sent up a shout of “God save the Protestant Duke!” as they rode past him.

  “Amen to that,” muttered Mr. Wilding grimly, “for I am afraid that no man can.”

  In the narrow lane by Hay Farm a horseman, going in the opposite direction, passed them at the gallop; but they had met several such since leaving Ilminster, for indeed the news was spreading fast, and the whole countryside was alive with messengers, some on foot and some on horseback, but all hurrying as if their lives depended on their haste.

  They made their way to the Market-Place where Monmouth’s declaration — that remarkable manifesto from the pen of Ferguson — had been read some hours before. Thence, having ascertained where His Grace was lodged, they made their way to the George Inn.

  In Coombe Street they found the crowd so dense that they could but with difficulty open out a way for their horses through the human press. Not a window but was open, and thronged with sight-seers — mostly women, indeed, for the men were in the press below. On every hand resounded the cries of “A Monmouth! A Monmouth! The Protestant Religion! Religion and Liberty,” which latter were the words inscribed on the standard Monmouth had set up that evening on the Church Cliffs.

  In truth, Wilding was amazed at what he saw, and said as much to Trenchard. So pessimistic had been his outlook that he had almost expected to find the rebellion snuffed out by the time they reached Lyme-of-the-King. What had the authorities been about that they had permitted Monmouth to come ashore, or had Vallancey’s information been wrong in the matter of the numbers that accompanied the Protestant Champion? Wilding’s red coat attracted some attention. In the dusk its colour was almost all that could be discerned of it.

  “Here’s a militia captain for the Duke!” cried one, and others took up the cry, and if it did nothing else it opened a way for them through that solid human mass and permitted them to win through to the yard of the George Inn. They found the spacious quadrangle thronged with men, armed and unarmed, and on the steps stood a tall, well-knit, soldierly man, his hat rakishly cocked, about whom a crowd of townsmen and country fellows were pressing with insistence. At a glance Mr. Wilding recognized Captain Venner — raised to the rank of colonel by Monmouth on the way from Holland.

  Trenchard dismounted, and taking a distracted stable-boy by the arm, bade him see to their horses. The fellow endeavoured to swing himself free of the other’s tenacious grasp.

  “Let me go,” he cried. “I am for the Duke!”

  “And so are we, my fine rebel,” answered Trenchard, holding fast.

  “Let me go,” the lout insisted. “I am going to enlist.”

  “And so you shall when you have stabled our nags. See to him, Vallancey; he is brainsick with the fumes of war.”

  The fellow protested, but Trenchard’s way was brisk and short; and so, protesting still, he led away their cattle in the end, Vallancey going with him to see that he performed this last duty as a stable-boy ere he too became a champion militant of the Protestant Cause. Trenchard sped after Wilding, who was elbowing his way through the yokels about the steps. The glare of a newly lighted lamp from the doorway fell full upon his long white face as he advanced, and Venner espied and recognized him.

  “Mr. Wilding!” he cried, and there was a glad ring in his voice, for though cobblers, tailors, deserters from the militia, pot-boys, stable-boys, and shuffling yokels had been coming in in numbers during the past few hours since the Declaration had been read, this was the first gentleman that arrived to welcome Monmouth. The soldier stretched out a hand to grasp the newcomer’s. “His Grace will see you this instant, not a doubt of it.” He turned and called down the passage. “Cragg!” A young man in a buff coat came forward, and to him Venner delivered Wilding and Trenchard that he might announce them to His Grace.

  In the room that had been set apart for him abovestairs, Monmouth still sat at table. He had just supped, with but an indifferent appetite, so fevered was he by the events of his landing. He was excited with hope — inspired by the readiness with which the men of Lyme and its neighbourhood had flocked to his banner — and fretted by anxiety that none of the gentry of the vicinity should yet have followed the example of the meaner folk, in answer to the messages dispatched at dawn from Seaton. The board at which he sat was still cumbered with
some glasses and platters and vestiges of his repast. Below him on his right sat Ferguson — that prince of plotters — very busy with pen and ink, his keen face almost hidden by his great periwig; opposite were Lord Grey, of Werke, and Andrew Fletcher, of Saltoun, whilst, standing at the foot of the table barely within the circle of candlelight from the branch on the polished oak, was Nathaniel Wade, the lawyer, who had fled to Holland on account of his alleged complicity in the Rye House plot and was now returned a major in the Duke’s service. Erect and soldierly of figure, girt with a great sword and with the butt of a pistol protruding from his belt, he had little the air of a man whose methods of contention were forensic.

  “You understand, then, Major Wade,” His Grace was saying, his voice pleasant and musical. “It is decided that the guns had best be got ashore forthwith and mounted.”

  Wade bowed. “I shall set about it at once, Your Grace. I shall not want for help. Have I Your Grace’s leave to go?”

  Monmouth nodded, and as Wade passed out, Ensign Cragg entered to announce Mr. Wilding and Mr. Trenchard. The Duke rose to his feet, his glance suddenly brightening. Fletcher and Grey rose with him; Ferguson paid no heed, absorbed in his task, which he industriously continued.

  “At last!” exclaimed the Duke. “Admit them, sir.”

  When they entered, Wilding coming first, his hat under his arm, the Duke sprang to meet him, a tall young figure, lithe and slender as a blade of steel, and of a steely strength for all his slimness. He was dressed in a suit of purple that became him marvellously well, and on his breast a star of diamonds flashed and smouldered like a thing of fire. He was of an exceeding beauty of face, wherein he mainly favoured that “bold, handsome woman” that was his mother, without, however, any of his mother’s insipidity; fine eyes, a good nose, straight and slender, and a mouth which, if sensual and indicating a lack of strength, was beautifully shaped. His chin was slightly cleft, the shape of his face a delicate oval, framed now in the waving masses of his brown wig. Some likeness to his late Majesty was also discernible, in spite of the wart, out of which his uncle James made so much capital.

  There was a slight flush on his cheeks, an added lustre in his eye, as he took Wilding’s hand and shook it heartily before Wilding had time to kiss His Grace’s.

  “You are late,” he said, but there was no reproach in his voice. “We had looked to find you here when we came ashore. You had my letter?”

  “I had not, Your Grace,” answered Wilding, very grave. “It was stolen.”

  “Stolen?” cried the Duke, and behind him Grey pressed forward, whilst even Ferguson paused in his writing to raise his piercing eyes and listen.

  “It is no matter,” Wilding reassured him. “Although stolen, it has but gone to Whitehall to-day, when it can add little to the news that is already on its way there.”

  The Duke laughed softly, with a flash of white teeth, and looked past Wilding at Trenchard. Some of the light faded out of his eyes. “They told me Mr. Trenchard...” he began, when Wilding, half turning to his friend, explained.

  “This is Mr. Nicholas Trenchard — John Trenchard’s cousin.

  “I bid you welcome, sir,” said the Duke, very agreeably, “and I trust your cousin follows you.”

  “Alas,” said Trenchard, “my cousin is in France,” and in a few brief words he related the matter of John Trenchard’s home-coming on his acquittal and the trouble there had been connected with it.

  The Duke received the news in silence. He had expected good support from old Speke’s son-in-law. Indeed, there was a promise that when he came, John Trenchard would bring fifteen hundred men from Taunton. He took a turn in the room deep in thought, and there was a pause until Ferguson, rubbing his great Roman nose, asked suddenly had Mr. Wilding seen the Declaration. Mr. Wilding had not, and thereupon the plotting parson, who was proud of his composition, would have read it to him there and then, but that Grey sourly told him the matter would keep, and that they had other things to discuss with Mr. Wilding.

  This the Duke himself confirmed, stating that there were matters on which he would be glad to have their opinion.

  He invited the newcomers to draw chairs to the table; glasses were called for, and a couple of fresh bottles of Canary went round the board. The talk was desultory for a few moments, whilst Wilding and Trenchard washed the dust from their throats; then Monmouth broke the ice by asking them bluntly what they thought of his coming thus, earlier than was at first agreed.

  Wilding never hesitated in his reply. “Frankly, Your Grace,” said he, “I like it not at all.”

  Fletcher looked up sharply, his clear intelligent eyes full upon Wilding’s calm face, his countenance expressing as little as did Wilding’s. Ferguson seemed slightly taken aback. Grey’s thick lips were twisted in a sneering smile.

  “Faith,” said the latter with elaborate sarcasm, “in that case it only remains for us to ship again, heave anchor, and back to Holland.”

  “It is what I should advise,” said Wilding slowly and quietly, “if I thought there was a chance of my advice being taken.” He had a calm, almost apathetic way of uttering startling things which rendered them doubly startling. The sneer seemed to freeze on Lord Grey’s lips; Fletcher continued to stare, but his eyes had grown more round; Ferguson scowled darkly. The Duke’s boyish face — it was still very youthful despite his six-and-thirty years — expressed a wondering consternation. He looked at Wilding, and from Wilding to the others, and his glance seemed to entreat them to suggest an answer to him. It was Grey at last who took the matter up.

  “You shall explain your meaning, sir, or we must hold you a traitor,” he exclaimed.

  “King James does that already,” answered Wilding with a quiet smile.

  “D’ye mean the Duke of York?” rumbled Ferguson’s Scottish accent with startling suddenness, and Monmouth nodded approval of the correction. “If ye mean that bloody papist and fratricide, it were well so to speak of him. Had ye read the Declaration...”

  But Fletcher cropped his speech in mid-growth. He was ever a short-tempered man, intolerant of irrelevancies.

  “It were well, perhaps,” said he, his accent abundantly proclaiming him a fellow countryman of Ferguson’s, “to keep to the matter before us. Mr. Wilding, no doubt, will state the reasons that exist, or that he fancies may exist, for giving advice which is hardly worthy of the cause to which he stands committed.”

  “Aye, Fletcher,” said Monmouth, “there is sense in you. Tell us what is in your mind, Mr. Wilding.”

  “It is in my mind, Your Grace, that this invasion is rash, premature, and ill-advised.”

  “Odds life!” cried Grey, and he swung angrily round fully to face the Duke, the nostrils of his heavy nose dilating. “Are we to listen to this milksop prattle?”

  Nick Trenchard, who had hitherto been silent, cleared his throat so noisily that he drew all eyes to himself.

  “Your Grace,” Mr. Wilding pursued, his air calm and dignified, and gathering more dignity from the circumstance that he proceeded as if there had been no interruption, “when I had the honour of conferring with you at The Hague two months ago, it was agreed that you should spend the summer in Sweden — away from politics and scheming, leaving the work of preparation to your accredited agents here. That work I have been slowly but surely pushing forward. It was not to be hurried; men of position are not to be won over in a day; men with anything to lose need some guarantee that they are not wantonly casting their possessions to the winds. By next spring, as was agreed, all would have been ready. Delay could not have hurt you. Indeed, with every day by which you delayed your coming you did good service to your cause, you strengthened its prospects of success; for every day the people’s burden of oppression and persecution grows more heavy, and the people’s temper more short; every day, by the methods that he is pursuing, King James brings himself into deeper hatred. This hatred is spreading. It was the business of myself and those others to help it on, until from the cottage of the ploughman t
he infection of anger should have spread to the mansion of the squire. Had Your Grace but given me time, as I entreated you, and as you promised me, you might have marched to Whitehall with scarce the shedding of a drop of blood; had Your Grace but waited until we were ready, England would have so trembled at your landing that your uncle’s throne would have toppled over ‘neath the shock. As it is...” He shrugged his shoulders, sighed and spread his hands, leaving his sentence uncompleted.

  Monmouth sat sobered by these sober words; the intoxication that had come to him from the little measure of success that had attended the opening of the listing on Church Cliffs, deserted him now; he saw the thing stark and in its true proportions, and not even the shouting of the folk in the streets below, crying his name and acclaiming him their champion, served to lighten the gloom that Wilding’s words cast like a cloud over his volatile heart. Alas, poor Monmouth! He was ever a weathercock, and even as Wilding’s words seemed to strike the courage out of him, so did Grey’s short contemptuous answer restore it.

  “As it is, we’ll thrust that throne over with our hands,” said he after a moment’s pause.

  “Aye,” cried Monmouth. “We’ll do it, God helping us!”

  “Our dependence and trust is in the Lord of Hosts, in Whose Name we go forth,” boomed the voice of Ferguson, quoting from his precious Declaration. “The Lord will do that which seemeth good unto Him.”

  “An unanswerable argument,” said Wilding, smiling. “But the Lord, I am told by the gentlemen of your cloth, works in His own good time, and my fears are all lest, finding us unprepared of ourselves, the Lord’s good time be not yet.”

  “Out on ye, sir,” cried Ferguson. “Ye want for reverence!”

  “Common sense will serve us better at the moment,” answered Wilding with a touch of sharpness. He turned to the frowning and perplexed Duke — whose mind was being tossed this way and that, like a shuttlecock upon the battledore of these men’s words. “Your Grace,” he said, “forgive me that I speak it if hear it you will, or forbid me to say it if your resolve is unalterable in this matter.”