The White Horses

by Halliwell Sutcliffe

  *CHAPTER XXII.*

  *MISS BINGHAM.*

  It was no usual comradeship that held between the Royalists who gatheredin one company after Marston Moor was lost to the King. They travelledthrough vile roads--roads broken up by incessant rains--they campedwherever they found a patch of drier ground for the night's sleep. Butnever for a moment did they lose the glamour that attached to the personof King Charles. Like a beacon-light, the thought of thehalf-vanquished Stuart went steadily in front of them. Their strengthlay in this--that, whether death or life arrived, they knew the venturewell worth while.

  The life had a strange savour of its own. The Nappa Squire, the lateGovernor of Knaresborough and his officers, Lady Ingilby--all had knownthe weight of harsh responsibility so long as the King's cause was alivein the North. The cause was dead now. There was no need to be atstrain, sleeping or waking, with the sense that it rested with each ofthem to keep the monarchy secure. There was asked of them only ahaphazard and stimulating warfare, of the sort dear to all hillmen.

  Scarborough Castle fell, and when the news was brought--they were diningat the moment in a wooded dell between Beamsley and Langbar--theGovernor lifted his hat with pleasant gravity.

  "God rest the gentlemen of Scarborough. They have earned their holiday,as we have."

  Michael was busy with the stew-pot, hanging gipsy-wise on three sticksabove a fire of gorse and fir-cones. "It's hey for Skipton-in-Craven,"he said with a cheery smile. "I aye liked the comely town, and now theKing will know that she was the last in all the North to stand for him."

  "Maybe Skipton has fallen, too, by this time," chided the Squire. "Youwere always one for dreams, Michael."

  Michael was silent till the meal was ended. Then he mowed a swath ofthistles with his sword, and brought the spoil to Elizabeth, tethered toa neighbouring tree. She brayed at him with extreme tenderness.

  "Now that we're well victualled, friends," he said lazily, "who comeswith me to hear how it fares with Skipton?"

  The Governor did not like the venture--the hazard of it seemed toogreat--but Squire Metcalf did.

  "How d'ye hold together at all, Michael?" roared the Squire. "So muchfolly and such common sense to one man's body--it must be a civil warwithin yourself."

  Michael glanced at Joan Grant with an instinct of which he repentedinstantly. "It is, sir. Since I was born into this unhappy world,there has been civil war inside me. I need an outlet now."

  "You shall have it, lad."

  "And you call this common sense?" asked the Governor, with good-temperedirony.

  "Ay, of the Yoredale sort. A blow or two in Skipton High Street--whoknows what heart it might give the garrison?"

  "I must remind you that we have women-folk to guard, and our wounded."

  "But, sir, this is a Metcalf riding, all like the olden time. We nevermeant your Knaresborough men to share it."

  Yet some of the Knaresborough men would not be denied; and the Governor,as he saw the sixty horsemen ride over and down toBeamsley-by-the-Wharfe, wished that his private conscience would let himjourney with them. He stood watching the hill-crest long after they haddisappeared, and started when a hand was laid gently on his arm.

  "It is hard to stay?" asked Lady Ingilby.

  "By your leave, yes. Why should these big Metcalfs have all thefrolic?"

  "Ah, frolic! As if there were naught in life but gallop, and cut andthrust, and----sir, is there no glory in staying here to guard weak?"

  The Governor was in evil mood. He had seen the King's cause go, hadseen Knaresborough succumb, had watched the steadfast loyalty of alifetime drift down the stream of circumstance like a straw in aheadlong current.

  "Lady Ingilby," he said wearily, "there is no longer any glory anywhere.It has gone from the land."

  "It is here among us. Till we were broken folk, I did not know ourstrength. None but the Stuart, friend, could have kept us in suchfriendliness and constancy. Oh, I know! I saw you glance round foryour horse when the Metcalfs went--saw your struggle fought out,sir--and, believe me, you were kind to stay."

  They finished their interrupted meal at leisure; and it was not tillabout four of the clock that Miss Bingham, who had strayed afield topick a bunch of valley lilies, came running back to camp. The two menin pursuit blundered headlong into the enemy before they saw theirperil; and they found scant shrift.

  Miss Bingham, thoroughbred beneath her whimsies, halted a moment toregain her courage. "These are but outposts, sir," she said. "From thehill-top I could see a whole company of Roundheads."

  "Their number," asked the Governor--"and are they mounted?"

  "More than our own, I think, and they go on foot."

  "And half of us wounded. Come, gentlemen, there's no time to waste."

  His weariness was gone. Alert, masterful, almost happy, he bade thewomen get further down the hill, out of harm's way. He gave his mentheir stations--little knots of them cowering under clumps of gorse andbroom--until the land seemed empty of all human occupation. OnlyElizabeth, the wayward ass, lifted up her voice from time to time, afterfinishing the last of the thistles Michael had given her. And suddenly,as they waited, the Governor let a sharp oath escape him.

  "This comes of letting women share a fight. In the name of reason, whyis Miss Bingham running up the hill again?"

  They peered over the gorse, saw the tall, lithe figure halt, clearlylimned against the sky-line. They heard her voice, pitiful andpleading.

  "Parliament men, I am alone and friendless. Will you aid me?"

  A steel-capped Roundhead showed above the hill-crest. "There are plentyto aid such a comely lass as thee," he said, his rough Otley burrcutting the summer's silence like a blunt-edged knife.

  "Then follow quickly."

  The Governor laughed gently as he watched Miss Bingham turn and racedown the hill. "A rare plucked one, she," he muttered, "kin to Jael, Ifancy, wife of Heber the Kenite."

  She passed close by him on her breathless run down hill and joined thewomen-folk below. And the next moment the red havoc of it began. TheRoundheads saw their leader race forward, and followed in close order.Down the slope they poured, and every clump of gorse spat out at themwith a red and murderous fire. Then the Knaresborough men were up andinto them, and when their leader got back to Otley with the remnants ofhis men, he protested that "he'd fancied, like, they'd ta'en all thehornets' nests i' Yorkshire, but some few thrifty wasps were breedingstill."

  "Why do you laugh?" said Lady Ingilby, when the Governor came down totell her all was well.

  "Because luck is as skew-tempered as the jackass braying yonder. Havethe Metcalfs had such frolic out at Skipton, think ye? And I was keento ride with them--Miss Bingham, I owe you reparation. When I saw youmove up the hill yonder, I cursed you for a woman."

  "That was unwise, sir. As well curse Elizabeth because she is a donkey,and yearns for absent friends; or the jack-snipe, because his flight isslanting; or any of us who are made as we are made."

  "We thought you light of heart, child, in the old days at Knaresborough.Yet none of us could have planned a neater ambush."

  "It was my old pastime, after all. How often you've chided me forluring men into folly. Oh, what wise and solemn discourses you havegiven me, sir, on the unwisdom of it!"

  "There was wisdom in it this time. But for the ambush, we could nothave faced the odds."

  For the next hour she busied herself with bandaging the men's hurts;then, with a restlessness that had been growing on her since theMetcalfs went, she climbed the hill again. Only Blake saw her go.Unrest had been his comrade, too, since he found himself sharing thisodd gipsy life with the woman he asked least to meet on this side or theother of the grave.

  He followed with reluctance and a smile at his own folly. She wasstanding on the hill-crest, one hand shading her eyes, as if she lookedfor some one to arrive.

  "Does he come, Miss Bingham?" asked Blake.r />
  She turned with a fury that died away and left her helpless. There wasderision, heart-ache, pity, in Blake's mobile face.

  "Is all forgot, then, Mr. Blake? There was a time in Knaresborough, atthe ferry-steps, when you thought kindly of me."

  "There was. I ask you for some explanation of the madness. To myshame, the memory came and weakened me years after--when I found myselfin Oxford, to be precise, and heard the nightingales. Answer the riddle.How can a thing so slight and empty hinder a grown man?"

  "You are bitter, unforgiving."

  "Neither. I've ridden too many evil roads to remember bitterness. Itis simply that I'm tired and filled with wonder. Tell me why Oxford andthe nightingales opened an old wound afresh."

  "It goes back to Eve's days, I think," murmured Miss Bingham.

  Demureness, coquetry, the hint of tears and laughter in her eyes--allshould have disarmed Blake.

  "Ay, find other shoulders for the blame," he said impassively.

  "As Adam did."

  Again the easy insolence failed her at need. She was aware that nonimbleness of tongue could help her now. Blake stood there like somejudge whose bias against the prisoner at the bar was hardening.

  "After all, you owe me gratitude," she went on hurriedly. "If it hadnot been that I'm fickle--oh, I admit as much--you would not stand whereyou stand now. I remember you so well--gay, easy-going, with a tonguethat made one half believe your flattery. And now? You're Blake therider--little Blake--Blake who never tires. I see men lift their headswhen your name is mentioned, and hear their praise. Did I do so ill atKnaresborough, to set you on the road?"

  "You broke my heart. If that was to do well--why, my thanks, MissBingham."

  It was then, for the first time, that knowledge came to her, as if aveil were lifted. She saw the years behind. Vanity, pride of conquest,zest in the hunting for hunting's sake--these had been her luxuries.She had not guessed that the sport might cripple men for life.

  "Why do you tell me this--you who are so proud and reticent?"

  "Not for my pleasure," he answered drily. "There's a lad of the MetcalfsI have a liking for. I would save him from my sort of fate, if thatcould be."

  He could not understand the change in her. She was fierce, vindictive.Through the velvet dalliance of her life the claws flashed out. Then,in a moment, she repented. Her voice grew smooth and insolent again.

  "Oh, Puritan, because you have forgotten how to play, you would put alllight-hearted folk in prison. Sir, by your leave, I wait here till oneChristopher Metcalf returns from Skipton town. I wish him very well."

  "Then heaven help him, madam," said Blake, and went down the hill insearch of better cheer.

  The Metcalfs long ago had come to Embsay, and up the further hill thatgave them a clear view of Skipton. The long, grey church, the Castle'ssturdy front, the beautiful, wide street, rich in the summer's greenerythat bordered it, lay spread before them in the golden sunlight. Themarket-square was packed with men, and the hubbub of the crowd came upthe rise.

  The Squire of Nappa had called a halt because their horses needed abreathing-space before they put their project into action. More thanonce, during the ride out, they had laughed at the humour of their plan,though most men would have been thinking of the extreme hazard. Theyproposed, in fact, to get behind the Roundheads' position on Cock Hill,to charge them unexpectedly from the rear, and to capture their cannonryby sheer speed of onset.

  "It will be a tale to set the whole North in a roar," said the Squire."And the Royalists up hereabout, God knows, have need of laughter thesedays."

  "Ay, but look yonder, sir," put in Christopher gravely.

  The Squire followed the direction of his hand. In the sunlitmarket-square they saw Mallory, the Governor, ride over the lowereddrawbridge. After him came the gentry and the ladies of the garrison,then soldiery on foot; and, last of all, the stable-boys and cooks andscullions, who had ministered for two long years to the needs of thosebesieged.

  Mallory was erect and buoyant. Standards waved in the merry breeze,their colours glowing in the sunlight.

  "What does it mean?" asked Christopher. "It is no sortie; yet they ridewith heads up, as if life went very well with them."

  The old Squire passed a hand across his eyes. Feeling ran deep with himat all times; and now it was as if he looked years ahead and saw theKing himself go out in just this fashion, proud, resolute, content withthe day's necessary work.

  "It means, my lad," he said roughly, "that Skipton-in-Craven has yieldedat long last. But she goes out with the full honours of war, and shecan boast till the Trump o' Doom that she was the last in Yorkshire tostand for the King's Majesty."

  They rode a little nearer to the town. And now they could see that thecrowd thronging the High Street was made up of Parliament men, who movedto one side and the other, clearing a route for the outgoing garrison.They saw Lambert ride forward, salute Sir John Mallory with gravepunctilio--heard Mallory's voice come lightly on the wind, as if heexchanged a jest--and then the long procession passed, with bannersflying, and the tale of Skipton's siege was ended.

  "Best turn about, Metcalfs," growled the Squire. "We can do nothinghere. There'll be the women wanting us out Beamsley way, and Michaelhas his donkey to attend to."

  "True," assented Michael. "All's gone--Marston, York, Skipton--butElizabeth is with us still. There's many a kick left in li'leElizabeth."

  So--with laughter, lest they cried--the Metcalf men took route again forBeamsley. And the Squire rode far ahead, with a stormy grief and asense of utter desolation for companions.

  Kit, seeing his father's trouble, was minded to spur forward and helphim in his need; but Michael checked him.

  "He has the black dog on his shoulders. Best leave him to it."

  "Why, yes. That is the Metcalf way, I had forgotten, Michael."

  When they neared the hill that was the last of their climb, up and overinto Beamsley, they saw the slim figure of a woman, tall against thesky; and, as they came nearer still, Michael--whose sight was like ahawk's--told them that Miss Bingham was waiting there to bring themback.

  "Kind and sonsy, she," laughed one of the late garrison atKnaresborough.

  "You will unsay that, sir," said Christopher.

  "There's nothing to unsay. Kind and sonsy--daft hot-head, you might saythat of your own mother."

  "In a different tone. You will unsay it."

  "And why? We Knaresborough men seldom unsay anything, until ourwindpipes are cut clean in two."

  "There's for a good Irishman!" said Michael, putting his bulk betweenthe combatants. "He'll talk, says he, when his windpipe is in two.They could not better that in Donegal."

  So the quarrel was blown abroad by the laughter of their fellows; butMichael, as they jogged up the hill, grew dour and silent. Kit's suddenheat astonished him. He had not guessed that the lad's regard for MissBingham went deeper than the splash of a pebble in a summer's pool.

  When they reached the hill-top, a fresh surprise awaited him. MissBingham was standing there, with pale, drawn face; and her eyes searchedeagerly for one only of the company, and disdained the rest.

  "Her eyes searched eagerly for one only of the company,and disdained the rest."]

  Michael could not believe it. Her easy handling of the world she knewby heart--the levity that cloaked all feeling--were gone. She put ahand on Kit's bridle-arm as he rode up, and forgot, it seemed, that manyfolk were looking on.

  "You are wounded. No? Then how fares it out at Skipton?"

  The old Squire had seen the drift of things with an eye as keen asMichael's; and in his present mood he was intolerant of women and allgentler matters. "It has sped bonnily," he snapped. "Skipton has gonedown-stream with the flood, Miss Bingham, and there's no more to do,save tend women's vapours and feed Michael's jackass."

  She smiled pleasantly at this man in evil mood. "Sir, that is not likeyou. If your courtesy towards women has gone, too, then chivalry isen
ded for all time."

  The Metcalfs waited for the Squire's rejoinder. None guessed how therebuke would take him; but all knew how deep he was wading in the chillbog of adversity. They saw him lift his head in fury, saw him relentwith hardship.

  "Miss Bingham," he said, "there was a sorrow and a madness at my heart.You are right. If I forget courtesy toward women, I forget the wife whobred tall sons for me in Yoredale."

  He went apart that night and took counsel of his God, on the high landswhere the birds seemed to rise for matins almost as soon as evensong wasended. He came down again for early breakfast in the woodland camp, withall the grace of youth about him, in high spirits, ready for the day'ssurprises.