by Howard Pyle
“Fear not, mistress,” said Jerningham, softly. “Come, come, captain, an end, an end! Time is hastening. I pray you, be off upon your ride to Dover.”
“Dover!” echoed the captain, with a strange laugh. “Ride to Dover! By God’s death, things have changed in the past ten minutes! I shall not ride to Dover, thank your worship! not this night! I shall stay here to save this lady in spite of herself! — in spite of herself and of you all, good gentlemen!”
“Is this your promise, you rascal?” exclaimed Jerningham. “You gave your word to ride forthwith.”
“And being a rascal, I claim a rascal’s privilege to break his word!” cried Ravenshaw. “Away from that lady, or by this hand—”
He did not finish his threat, but made straightway for Jerningham. The latter ran with the maid to the farther side of the table, and whipped out his sword. Ravenshaw, in pursuing, turned his back to the fellows at the doorway. “Upon him, men!” shouted Jerningham, and then, raising his voice still higher, called out: “Ho, Ermsby, to the rescue!”
Ravenshaw, trusting his ears to warn him of what threatened in the rear, kept Jerningham’s sword in play rather cautiously, for fear of too much endangering or frightening Millicent, who was pale as death. The girl, clinging to Jerningham, was thus rather a protection than an encumbrance to that gentleman. Very soon the captain heard the bustle of newcomers entering at the front door, and then a general movement, led by a more resolute tread than he had noticed before. He turned and faced Sir Clement Ermsby, whom he recognised but vaguely as a person with whom he had been in collision sometime in the past. He parried the knight’s thrust, and guarded himself with his dagger from a lunge of Cutting Tom’s. He then spun around on his heel, lest Jerningham might either pierce his back, or profit by the opportunity to take the maid away.
Jerningham had chosen the latter course, but he was hindered by the rush of some of his own men, who had run around the table in order that the captain might be surrounded. Thus checked for an instant, and in some way made sensible of Ravenshaw’s last movement, Jerningham turned back, and again engaged the captain. Ravenshaw was thus between two forces, one headed by Jerningham, the other by Sir Clement. He leaped upon the table, jumped to the floor on the other side, while half a dozen blades darted after him; dragged the table to a corner, and turned to face his enemies from the little triangular space behind it. Led by Ermsby, they rushed upon him, thinking to find the table of short use as a bulwark against such numbers.
But Jerningham stood back out of the rush, still holding Millicent by the hand, and shouted:
“Some keep him busy above the table; some thrust under at his legs. Let the knave die, ’tis good time! I’ll look to the comfort of the lady.” And he started again toward the right-hand passage.
Ravenshaw bent forward across the table, and swept aside the points of steel with sword and dagger; but they threatened him anew, and he heard men scrambling under the table to stab his legs; he saw, between two heads of his foes, Jerningham’s movement toward the passage, and he shouted:
“Ho, rufflers, maunderers, upright men! a rescue! a rescue!”
Jerningham halted, somewhat wondering. The kitchen door flew open, and, with a hasty thumping of crutches, the beggars hobbled in, men and women, most of them with pewter cans, from which they had been regaling themselves. At sight of these maimed creatures, with their frowsy hair, their gaunt looks, the red blotches and bandages of some, the white eyeballs of others, Millicent started back in horror. As the door by which they came in was near the passage toward which Jerningham was leading her, and as they spread into a wide group in entering, they blocked the way of her departure.
“Stop the gentry cove!” cried Ravenshaw. “In the name of the salamon, stand by a brother!”
The captain’s assailants had drawn away a little to see who the newcomers were. Having satisfied himself at a glance, Sir Clement Ermsby laughed, and said: “A rescue, sooth! A bunch of refuse, — rotten pieces of men. Come, back to your work!” And he renewed the attack on Ravenshaw; while Jerningham, calling out, “Ay, to him! these be helpless cripples,” started again for the passage, his sword-point forward.
But with a wild whoop the beggars straightened out of their lame attitudes, swung their crutches and staves in the air, lost all regard of sores and patches, found arms for empty sleeves, showed keen eyes where white balls had plead for pity, threw off all the shams of their profession, and swept upon the captain’s foes. A sturdy blow of a staff bore down Jerningham’s rapier, a filching hook tore his dagger from his other hand. Iron-shod crutches and staves rained upon the heads of Sir Clement and the other men; hooks caught their clothing, and dragged some to the floor. When at close quarters, the beggars drew their knives; the women fought like men. Millicent, separated from Jerningham in the fray, ran shrieking in the one direction open to her; this was toward the corner at the right of the front door. Ravenshaw, dashing through the confusion, placed himself triumphantly at her side. She essayed to run from him; but he gently swept her with a powerful arm into the corner behind him.
“Oh, God, I am lost!” she cried, seeing Jerningham and his men brought to pause by the sturdy wielders of staff, crutch, and knife.
Across the captain’s mind flashed a wild project of bearing her away in search of her uncle’s house, which he knew was somewhere in the neighbourhood; but he heard a sudden fierce dash of the long-expected rain against the rear windows, saw how faint and exhausted she was, thought of the opposition she would offer, and considered the up-hill fight he would have to wage against an enemy desperate with the fear of losing his prey. He had a better idea, — one in which prowess might be supplemented with craft.
Quite near him, in the wall at his right hand, was the open door to the porter’s room which he had noticed upon arriving at the house; it had no other means of entrance or exit, its high-placed window being a mere slit. He purposely moved a little to the left. Millicent, seeing an opening, glided along the wall to escape him. He sprang forward, and confronted her just at the door of the porter’s room. Recoiling from him, she instinctively darted through the door. “Good!” cried the captain, taking his place in the doorway, his face to the hall.
Millicent, in the little room, sank upon a pallet, which was its only furniture, and put out her hands to keep the captain from approaching her. But she saw that he had stopped at the threshold, with his back to her. It was, indeed, no part of his plan to follow her into the room.
Jerningham, startled at the maid’s sudden disappearance, ran forward with a cry of rage; but Ravenshaw met sword and dagger with sword and dagger, and Jerningham was fain to draw back to save his body. Matters thereupon resumed a state of abeyance, during which men recovered breath, regained their feet, and took account of bleeding heads and flesh wounds.
“Hark you!” spoke the captain, in a tone meant for her as well as for Jerningham. “It is now for us to prove which of us means this lady no harm. Let her abide where she is, till the storm and the night are past; then, together, we’ll conduct her to her friends. And meanwhile, the man who attempts to enter this room declares himself her enemy.”
Jerningham’s face showed the rage of temporary defeat. “Then come from the door there,” he said, sullenly, for want of a better speech.
“Nay, for this night I am the door here, — though she may close this wooden door an she please. These” — his sword and dagger— “she’ll find true bolts and bars. She may e’en sleep, if she will, — there’s a pallet to lie on.”
Sitting weak and perplexed on the pallet in the dark little apartment, she wondered what purpose the captain might be about.
At the suggestion of sleep, Jerningham had an idea. Pretending to confer in whispers with Sir Clement, he secretly beckoned Gregory, who was still in his false beard. The servant approaching without appearance of intent, Jerningham, still under cover of talking to Ermsby, asked in undertone for the sleeping potion which Gregory was to have obtained. The lackey transferred a phial in an u
nperceived manner to his master’s hand. Pocketing it in triumph, Jerningham turned to the captain:
“We shall see how honestly you mean, then. And that the lady may rest freer of annoyance, send these knaves of yours out of her hearing, back to their ale.”
“With all my heart — when you send away your knaves also.”
“I will do so; but fear not, mistress,” he called out. “I will not leave this hall. ’Tis all for the avoiding of bloodshed, and your better comfort in the end.”
“’Tis well, sir; I am not afraid,” she answered, in a tired, trembling voice.
It was agreed that Jerningham’s men should go into the room on the left-hand side of the hall, diagonally opposite that in which the maid was; that the beggars should return to the kitchen; that the signal for both parties to withdraw should be given by Jerningham. He was about to speak the word forthwith, when the captain interposed:
“By your leave, I’ll first have private speech with my friends. You have already had with yours, and may have again ere they depart.”
Jerningham saw no way of refusing, or, indeed, much reason therefor; doubtless the captain wished but to counsel his rascals to be vigilant for a possible second call. So Jerningham gave consent by silence. Ravenshaw had a conference with the beggars, in which chief parts were taken by the white-bearded rogue and the ancient cripple who had guided the maunderers to the Grange.
Presently Ravenshaw signified that he had done; whereupon Jerningham said “Begone,” and the two parties filed out, each narrowly watching the other, Jerningham’s men taking a torch with them, the beggars clumping with their iron-tipped wooden implements. Only Ravenshaw took note that one of the lanterns disappeared with the beggars. The captain, Jerningham, Mistress Meg, who had watched recent occurrences from the kitchen door, and Sir Clement Ermsby were left in the hall.
“How?” quoth the captain, staring at the knight. “Do you break faith? Why go you not with the other men?”
“Troth, sir, I am nobody’s man,” replied Sir Clement. “I am this gentleman’s friend, and, when I choose, I fight for him; but my comings and goings are not to be stipulated for by any man.”
Ravenshaw perceived that a minor point had been scored against him; but he was not much discomfited. He had merely to play for time, to guard the doorway of that room for an unknown number of hours. As long as he could temporise, two antagonists were no worse than one; if it came to fighting, two were a little worse, but, as both must attack in front, the odds were nothing out of his experience.
“Have we not met before this, sir?” asked Ravenshaw, scrutinising Ermsby.
“My memory is but so-so,” replied Sir Clement, quizzically.
“Before God, I think we have,” said the captain, “and upon opposite sides, too, as we are now. Would I could remember! I have had so many quarrels, so many foes. I could swear you and I had clashed once upon a time.”
Sir Clement, who remembered the meeting well enough, merely smiled as if amused at the captain’s puzzlement. Ravenshaw drew a stool to the doorway, and sat down, weapons still in hand. Sir Clement was leaning back against the table, at the opposite side of the hall, with folded arms. He made mirth for himself by suggesting various impossible places where the captain might have met him; while Jerningham, ever keeping the corner of his eye on his enemy, went back and held a whispered conversation with Meg.
“Fear not,” said Jerningham, heeding the peremptory question in her eyes. “The maid is in yonder room. This captain, by a strange chance, knows her as one he hath designs against. He would neither have her go free, nor taken back to her father. He thinks to find her at his mercy. But we shall outwit him, and no more fighting. ’Tis for you to—”
“One would think he was her friend,” said Meg, glancing toward the captain.
“Poh! she fears him as he were the devil.”
“Does he, then, desire her?” queried Meg, with a curious feigned unconcernedness of tone and look.
Jerningham regarded her with the silence of sudden discovery; then, restraining a smile, said, watchfully: “He is another’s instrument, I think. Such a man’s fancy would ne’er light upon a child; she is little more. A woman of your figure were more to his liking, I’ll wager.” He paused, to observe Meg’s blush, which was not resentful; then he added, significantly: “If a woman were minded to make a fresh trial of life, with a brave husband now—”
“Well, and what then?” said she, looking him frankly in the eyes. “How if a woman were? The man is not seeking a wife, ten to one.”
“A few drops of this, mixed with a man’s wine,” said Jerningham, producing the phial in such manner that his body concealed it from Ravenshaw’s view, “have been known to work a wonder.”
“What is it?” she whispered, gazing at it.
“A love potion,” he answered. “The surest in the world, too. ’Tis the one with which—” But he broke off, shook his head, and replaced the phial in his pocket.
“Let me have it,” she whispered, excitedly.
“If you will swear to one thing.”
“What?”
“That you will find means to use it this night.”
“Why this night?”
He invented a reason. “So that, when it hath effect, you may use your power to draw him from that maid.”
“I swear,” she replied. He passed the phial to her, directed her in detail what to do, and returned to the front of the hall as if from a mere conference upon household matters. Meg went back to the kitchen. She failed to notice there that one of the beggars, a very old man, was missing; or that the window-seat was wet, as if the casement had been recently opened and closed again. Nor could old Jeremy have called her attention to these matters, for upon their return the other beggars had so crowded around him at the ale-cask that he had seen and heard only them and their clamours.
Ravenshaw and Sir Clement, having exhausted their topic of conversation, were regarding each other in silence. Jerningham, as his eyes fell upon the front door, suddenly exclaimed:
“The horse! Zounds, in this pelting rain—” He seized one of the lanterns and ran to the porch. “How now? The beast is not here!” He came back into the hall, looking puzzled.
“Perhaps the old man hath put him under roof,” suggested Ermsby.
Jerningham went to the kitchen door and called Jeremy, who averred he had not been near the horse since he had tied it outside the porch.
“’Twas ill tied, no doubt,” said Jerningham, “and hath got loose and sought shelter. Belike you left the stable door open. Go and see; and look in all the penthouses, too.”
Jeremy went out. His return was awaited in silence, Jerningham pacing the hall, Sir Clement staying motionless at the table’s edge, Ravenshaw sitting upon the stool before Millicent’s room. She had not closed the door; she remained upon the pallet, able to see a little of the hall, but herself out of the light that came in through the doorway. Her thoughts were in confusion; at last they became so clouded that, obeying the impulse of fatigue, she lay down on the pallet, without heed of the act; soon she was in a state between anxious waking and a troubled dream.
Jeremy came back, dripping, and said the horse was not to be found.
Berating him for stupidity, his master sent him back to the kitchen. Jerningham presently sat down upon a chair near the table against which Sir Clement stood. Slowly the minutes passed, while the heavy beat of the rain against the casements was the only sound. Once Jerningham called out: “Is all well with you, mistress?”
Millicent, brought to a sense of her whereabouts after a moment’s bewilderment, answered: “Yes, I thank you.” The silence fell again.
At last Jerningham said to Sir Clement: “Those rascals yonder need not have all the good cheer to themselves. There’s better drink than ale left in the house.” He rose, and summoned Meg from the kitchen.
“Fetch wine,” said he. Meg, returning to the kitchen, presently reappeared therefrom with a flagon and a pewter drinki
ng cup.
“First fill a cup, I pray you,” said Jerningham, “and carry it to the lady in yonder room.”
She poured out a cupful, set the flagon on the table, and approached the door at which Ravenshaw sat.
“Nay, you shall not pass here,” quoth the captain.
“What, will you deny the unhappy lady that small comfort?” said Jerningham, while Meg paused.
“No; I will convey it to her; but I’ll first see you drink a cup of the same wine.”
Jerningham shrugged his shoulders, took the cup from Meg, drained it, and turned it upside down. He then refilled it. Meg carried it to the captain, and held it close to his nostrils in handing it. He breathed its perfume, eyed it yearningly, then thrust his left hand with it into the room.
“A cup of wine for you, mistress,” called Jerningham.
Millicent, again roused from half-slumber, was too gracious to refuse; she took the cup, sipped, and passed it back to the captain’s waiting hand. He noticed that the cup was nearly full, but gave it back to Meg, though a little reluctantly. Jerningham emptied it down his own throat, and filled it for Sir Clement, who made one long grateful draught of the contents.
“Fill for yourself, mistress,” said Jerningham, affably. Meg shook her head, but, nevertheless, proceeded to pour out another cupful. Her back was toward Ravenshaw as she did so, but there was nothing in that to strike attention. What Jerningham and Sir Clement saw, however, was this: she held the cup with her thumb and little finger, against her palm, so that her three other fingers lay across the top. Along the inside of her middle finger was placed the phial, a narrow tube, tied to the finger with fine thread; the open end of the phial was toward the palm, which she had hitherto kept tight against it. But now, opening her fingers out above the rim of the cup as she poured the wine, she released a part of the phial’s contents into the cup at the same time. The sleight required but a moment.
She put down the flagon, transferred the cup to the other hand, and turned toward Ravenshaw.
“Eh? What?” exclaimed Jerningham, in feigned disapproval, reaching out for the cup.
