He came, and stood before the door, disaster written plainly on his face.
"Tell me," I said. "I would know the worst at once."
"They have arrested him," he said slowly, "on a charge of disloyalty to the Prince and to His Majesty. They seized him there, before us, his staff, and all his officers."
"Where have they imprisoned him?"
"There, in Launceston Castle. The Governor and an escort of men were waiting to take him. I rode to his side and begged him to give fight. His staff, his command, the whole army, I told him, would stand by him, if he would but give the word. But he refused. 'The Prince,' he said, 'must be obeyed.' He smiled at us there, on the Castle Green, and bade us be of good cheer. Then he handed his sword to the Governor, and they took him away."
"Nothing else?" I asked. "No other word, no message of farewell?"
"Nothing else," he said, "except he bade me take good care of you, and see you safely to your sister."
I sat quite still, my heart numb, all feeling and all passion spent.
"This is the end," said Colonel Roscarrock. "There is no other man in the army fit to lead us but Richard Grenvile. When Fairfax chooses to strike, he will find no opposition. This is the end."
Yes, I thought. This is the end. Many had fought and died, and all in vain. The bridges would not be blown now, the roads would not be guarded nor the defenses held. When Fairfax gave the word to march, the word would be obeyed, and his troops would cross the Tamar, never to depart. The end of liberty in Cornwall, for many months, for many years, perhaps for generations. And Richard Grenvile, who might have saved his country, was now a prisoner, of his own side, in Launceston Castle.
"If we had only time," Colonel Roscarrock was saying, "we could have a petition signed by every man and woman in the Duchy asking for his release. We could send messengers, in some way, to His Majesty himself, imploring pardon, insisting that the sentence of the Council is unjust. If we had only time..."
If we had only time, when the thaw breaks, when the spring comes... But it was that day the nineteenth of January, and the snow was falling still.
27
My first action was to leave Werrington, which I did that evening, before Sir Charles Trevanion, on Lord Hopton's staff, came to take over for his commander. I no longer had any claim to be there, and I had no wish to embarrass Charles Trevanion, who had known my father well. I went therefore to the hostelry in Broad Street, Launceston, near to the castle, and Colonel Roscarrock, after he had installed me there, took a letter for me to the Governor, requesting an interview with Richard for the following morning. He returned at nine o'clock, with a courteous but firm refusal. No one, said the Governor, was to be permitted to see Sir Richard Grenvile, by strict order of the Prince's Council. "We intend," said Colonel Roscarrock to me, "sending a deputation to the Prince himself at Truro. Jack Grenvile, I know, will speak for his uncle, and many more besides. Already, since the news has gone abroad, the troops are murmuring, and have been confined to their quarters for twenty-four hours in consequence. I can tell, by what the Governor said, that rioting is feared." There was no more I could ask him to do that day--I had trespassed too greatly on his time already--so I bade him a good night and went to bed, to pass a wretched night, wondering all the while in what dungeon they had lodged Richard, or if he had been given lodging according to his rank.
The next day, the twentieth, driving sleet came to dispel the snow, and I think, because of this, and because of my unhappiness, I have never hated any place so much as Launceston. The very name sounded like a jail. Just before noon Colonel Roscarrock called on me with the news that there were proclamations everywhere about the town that Sir Richard Grenvile had been cashiered from every regiment he had commanded, and was dismissed from His Majesty's Army--and all without court-martial.
"It cannot be done," he said with vehemence. "It is against every military code and tradition. There will be a mutiny in all ranks at such gross injustice. We are to hold a meeting of protest today, and I will let you know directly it is over what is decided." Meetings and conferences--somehow I had no faith in them. Yet how I cursed my impotence, sitting in my hired room above the cobbled street in Launceston.
Matty, too, fed me with tales of optimism. "There is no other talk about the town," she said, "but Sir Richard's imprisonment. Those who grumbled at his severity before are now clamoring for his release. This afternoon a thousand people went before the castle and shouted for the Governor. He is bound to let him go, unless he wants the castle burned about his ears."
"The Governor is only acting under orders," I said. "He can do nothing. It is to Sir Edward Hyde and the Council that they should direct their appeals."
"They say in the town," she answered, "that the Council have gone back to Truro, so fearful they are of mutiny."
That evening, when darkness fell, I could hear the tramping of many feet in the market square, and distant shouting, while flares and torches were tossed into the sky. Some were thrown at the windows of the Town Hall, and the landlord of my hostelry, fearing for his own, barred the shutters early, and the doors.
"They've put a double guard at the castle," he told Matty, "and the troops are still confined to their quarters."
How typical it was, I thought with bitterness, that now, in his adversity, my Richard should become so popular a figure. Fear was the whip that drove the people on. They had no faith in Lord Hopton, or any other commander. Only a Grenvile, they believed, could keep the enemy from crossing the Tamar.
When Colonel Roscarrock came at last to see me, I could tell from his weary countenance that nothing much had been accomplished. "The General has sent word to us," he said, "that he will be no party to release by force. He asks for a court-martial, and a chance to defend himself before the Prince, and to be heard. As to us, and to his army, he bids us serve under Lord Hopton."
Why in God's name, I wondered, could he not do the same himself but twelve hours since?
"So there will be no mutiny?" I said. "No storming of the castle?"
"Not by the army," said Colonel Roscarrock in dejection. "We have taken an oath to remain loyal to Lord Hopton. You have heard the latest news?"
"No?"
"Dartmouth has fallen. The Governor, Sir Hugh Pollard, and over a thousand men are taken prisoner. Fairfax has a line across Devon now, from north to south."
This would be no time, then, to hold courts-martial.
"What orders have you," I asked wearily, "from your new commander?"
"None as yet. He is at Stratton, you know, in the process of taking over and assembling his command. We expect to hear nothing for a day or two. Therefore I am at your disposal. And I think--forgive me--there is little purpose in your remaining here at Launceston." Poor Colonel Roscarrock. He felt me to be a burden, and small blame to him. But the thought of leaving Richard a prisoner in Launceston Castle was more than I could bear.
"Perhaps," I said, "if I saw the Governor myself?" But he gave me little hope. The Governor, he said, was not the type of man to melt before a woman. "I will go again," he assured me, "tomorrow morning, and ascertain at least that the General's health is good, and that he lacks for nothing." And with that assurance he left me, to pass another lonely night, but in the morning I woke to the sound of distant drums, and then heard the clattering of horses and troopers pass my window, and I wondered whether orders had come from Lord Hopton at Stratton during the night and if the army was on the march again. I sent Matty below for news, and the landlord told her that the troops had been on the move since before daybreak. "All the horse," he said, "had ridden away north already."
I had just finished breakfast when a runner brought me a hurried word, full of apology, from Colonel Roscarrock, saying that he had received orders to proceed at once to Stratton, as Lord Hopton intended marching north to Torrington, and that if I had any friend or relative in the district it would be best for me to go to them immediately. I had no friend or relative, nor would I seek them if I
had, and, summoning the landlord, I told him to have me carried to Launceston Castle, for I wished to see the Governor. I set forth, therefore, well wrapped against the weather, with Matty walking by my side and four fellows bearing my litter, and when I came to the castle gate I demanded to see the captain of the guard. He came from his room, unshaven, buckling his sword, and I thought how Richard would have dealt with him.
"I would be grateful," I said to him, "if you could give a message from me to the Governor."
"The Governor sees no one," he said at once, "without a written appointment."
"I have a letter here, in my hand," I said. "Perhaps it could be given to him."
He turned it over, looking doubtful, and then looked at me again. "What exactly, madam, is your business?" he asked.
He looked not unkindly, for all his blotched appearance, and I took a chance. "I have come," I said, "to inquire after Sir Richard Grenvile." At this he handed back my letter.
"I regret, madam," he said, "but you have come on a useless errand. Sir Richard is no longer here."
Panic seized me on the instant, and I pictured a sudden, secret execution. "What do you mean?" I asked. "No longer here?"
"He left this morning under escort for St. Michael's Mount," replied the captain of the guard. "Some of his men broke from their quarters last night and demonstrated here before the castle. The Governor judged it best to remove him from Launceston." At once the captain of the guard, the castle walls, the frowning battlements, lost all significance. Richard was no more imprisoned there. "Thank you," I said. "Good day," and I saw the officer stare after me, and then return to his room beneath the gate.
St. Michael's Mount. Some seventy miles away, in the western toe of Cornwall. At least he was far removed from Fairfax, but how in the world was I to reach him there? I returned to the hostelry with only one thought in my head now, and that to get from Launceston as soon as possible.
As I entered the door the landlord came to meet me, and said that an officer had called to inquire for me, and was even now waiting my return. I thought it must be Colonel Roscarrock, and went at once to see--and found instead my brother Robin. "Thank God," he said, "I have sight of you at last. As soon as I had news of Sir Richard's arrest, Sir John gave me leave of absence to ride to Werrington. They told me at the house you had been gone two days."
I was not sure whether I was glad to see him. It seemed to me, at this moment, that no man was my friend unless he was friend to Richard also. "Why have you come?" I said coolly. "What is your purpose?"
"To take you back to Mary," he said. "You cannot possibly stay here."
"Perhaps," I answered, "I have no wish to go."
"That is neither here nor there," he said stubbornly. "The entire army is in process of reorganizing, and you cannot remain in Launceston without protection. I myself have orders to join Sir John Digby at Truro, where he has gone with a force to protect the Prince in the event of invasion. My idea is to leave you at Menabilly on my way thither."
I thought rapidly. Truro was the headquarters of the Council, and if I went to the town there was a chance, faint yet not impossible, that I could have an audience with the Prince himself.
"Very well," I said to Robin, shrugging my shoulders, "I will come with you, but on one condition. And that is that you do not leave me at Menabilly, but let me come with you all the way to Truro."
He looked at me doubtfully. "What," he said, "is to be gained by that?"
"Nothing gained, nor lost," I answered; "only, for old time's sake, do what I demand."
At that he came and took my hand, and held it a minute.
"Honor," he said, his blue eyes full upon my face, "I want you to believe me when I say that no action of mine had any bearing on his arrest. The whole army is appalled. Sir John himself, who had many a bitter dispute with him, has written to the Council, appealing for his swift release. He is needed, at this moment, more than any other man in Cornwall."
"Why," I said bitterly, "did you not think of it before? Why did you refuse to obey his orders about the bridge?"
Robin looked startled for a moment, and then discomforted.
"I lost my temper," he admitted. "We were all rankled that day, and Sir John, the best of men, had given me my orders. You don't understand, Honor, what it has meant to me, and Jo, and all your family, to have your name a byword in the county. Ever since you left Radford last spring to go to Exeter people have hinted, and whispered, and even dared to say aloud the foulest things."
"Is it so foul," I said, "to love a man, and go to him when he lies wounded?"
"Why are you not married to him, then?" said Robin. "If you had been, in God's conscience, you would have earned the right now to share in his disgrace. But to follow from camp to camp, like a loose woman... I tell you what they say, Honor, in Devon. That he well earns his name of Skellum to trifle thus with a woman who is crippled."
Yes, I thought, they would say that in Devon...
"If I am not Lady Grenvile," I said, "it is because I do not choose to be so."
"You have no pride, then, no feeling for your name?"
"My name is Honor, and I do not hold it tarnished," I answered him.
"This is the finish. You know that?" he said, after a moment's pause. "In spite of a petition, signed by all our names, I hardly think the Council will agree to his release. Not unless they receive some counterorder from His Majesty."
"And His Majesty," I said, "has other fish to fry. Yes, Robin, I understand. And what will be the outcome?"
"Imprisonment at His Majesty's pleasure, with a pardon, possibly, at the end of the war."
"And what if the war does not go the way we wish, but the rebels gain Cornwall for the Parliament?"
Robin hesitated, so I gave the answer for him.
"Sir Richard Grenvile is handed over, a prisoner, to General Fairfax," I said, "and sentenced to death as a criminal of war." I pleaded fatigue, then, and went to my room, and slept easily for the first time for many nights, for no other reason but because I was bound for Truro, which was some thirty miles distant from St. Michael's Mount. The snow of the preceding days had wrought havoc on the road, and we were obliged to go a longer route, by the coast, for the moors were now impassable. Thus, with many halts and delays, it was well over a week before we came to Truro, only to discover that the Council was now removed to Pendennis Castle, at the mouth of the Fal, and Sir John Digby and his forces were now also within the garrison.
Robin found me and Matty a lodging at Penryn, and went at once to wait on his commander, bearing a letter from me to Jack Grenvile, whom I believed to be in close attendance on the Prince. The following day Jack rode to see me--and I felt as though years had passed since I had last set eyes upon a Grenvile. Yet it was barely three weeks since he, and Richard, and young Bunny, had ridden all three to Menabilly. I nearly wept when he came into the room.
"Have no fear," he said at once. "My uncle is in good heart, and sturdy health. I have received messages from him from the Mount, and he bade me write you not to be anxious for him. It is rather he who is likely to be anxious on your part, for he believes you with your sister, Mrs. Rashleigh."
I determined then to take young Jack into my confidence.
"Tell me first," I said, "what is the opinion on the war?"
He made a face, and shrugged his shoulders. "You see we are at Pendennis," he said quietly. "That, in itself, is ominous. There is a frigate at anchor in the roads, fully manned and provisioned, with orders to set sail for the Scillies when the word is given. The Prince himself will never give the word--he is all for fighting to the last--but the Council lacks his courage. Sir Edward Hyde will have the last word, not the Prince of Wales."
"How long, then, have we till the word be given?"
"Hopton and the army have marched to Torrington," answered Jack, "and there is a hope--but I fear a faint one--that by attacking first Hopton will take the initiative, and force a decision. He is a brave fellow, but lacks my uncle'
s power, and the troops care nothing for him. If he fails at Torrington, and Fairfax wins the day--then you may expect that frigate to set sail."
"And your uncle?"
"He will remain, I fear, at the Mount. He has no other choice. But Fairfax is a soldier, and a gentleman. He will receive fair treatment." This was no answer for me. However much a soldier and a gentleman Fairfax himself might be, his duty was to Parliament, and Parliament had decreed in '43 that Richard Grenvile was a traitor.
"Jack," I said, "would you do something for me, for your uncle's sake?"
"Anything in the world," he answered, "for the pair of you."
Ah, bless you, I thought, true son of Bevil...
"Get me an audience with the Prince of Wales," I said to him.
He whistled, and scratched his cheek, a very Grenvile gesture.
"I'll do my best, I swear it," he said, "but it may take time and patience, and I cannot promise you success. He is so hemmed about with members of the Council, and dares do nothing but what he is told to do by Sir Edward Hyde. I tell you, Honor, he's led a dog's life until now. First his mother, and now the Chancellor. When he does come of age and can act for himself, I'll wager he'll set the stars on fire."
"Make up some story," I urged. "You are his age, and a close companion. You know what would move him. I give you full license."
He smiled--his father's smile. "As to that," he said, "he has only to hear your story, and how you followed my uncle to Exeter, to be on tenterhooks to look at you. Nothing pleases him better than a love affair. But Sir Edward Hyde--he's the danger."
He left me, with an earnest promise to do all he could, and with that I was forced to be content. Then came a period of waiting that seemed like centuries, but was, in all reality, little longer than a fortnight. During this time Robin came several times to visit me, imploring me to leave Penryn and return to Menabilly. Jonathan Rashleigh, he said, would come himself to fetch me, would I but say the word.
The King's General Page 29
