No Quarter! Part 56

"I fear not; would we were sure of its being only that!"

"Ha! A house you think?"

"I do, Sir Richard."

"And--?"

"The one we're making for!"

"By Heavens! I believe it is. It bears that way to a point.

Ruardean's more to the right. Yes, it must be Hollymead!"

Both talked excitedly, but no more words pa.s.sed between them there and then. The next heard was the command--"March--double quick!" and down the hill to Drybrook went they at a gallop over the tiny stream, and up the long winding slope round the shoulder of Ruardean Hill--without halt or draw on bridle. There only poising for an instant, as they came within view of the village and saw the conflagration was not in, but wide away from it; the glare and sparks ascending over the spot where Hollymead House should be, but was no more.

As, continuing their gallop, they rode in through the park gates, it was to see a vast blazing pile, like a bonfire built by t.i.tans--the f.a.gots'

great beams heaped together confusedly--from which issued a hissing and crackling, with at intervals loud explosions, as from an ordnance magazine on fire.

CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

VERY NEAR AN ENCOUNTER.

Mitcheldean lies at the foot of the steep _facade_ already spoken of as forming a periphery to the elevated Forest district. The slope ascends direct from the western skirts of the little town; but outlying ridges also inclose it on the north, east, and south, so that even the tall spire of its church is invisible from any great distance. So situated, railways give it a wide berth; and few places better deserve the t.i.tle "secluded." The only sort of traveller who ever thinks of paying it a visit is the "commercial," or some pedestrian tourist, crossing the Forest from the Severn side to view the more picturesque scenery of the Wye, with intention to make stoppage at the ancient hostelry of the Speech House, midway between.

In the days of the saddle and pack-horse, however, things were different with Mitcheldean. Being on one of the direct routes of travel from the metropolis to South Wales, and a gate of entry, as it were, to the Forest on its eastern side, it was then a place of considerable note; its people accustomed to all sorts of wayfarers pa.s.sing daily, hourly through it.

Since the breaking out of the Rebellion these had been mostly of the military kind, though not confined to either party in the strife. One would march through to-day, the other to-morrow; so that, hearing the trample of hoofs, rarely could the townsmen tell whether Royalists or Parliamentarians were coming among them, till they saw their standards in the street.

They would rather have received visit from neither; but, compelled to choose, preferred seeing the soldiers of the Parliament. So when Walwyn's Horse came rattling along, their green coats, with the c.o.c.ks'-tail feathers in their hats, distinguishable in the clear moonlight, the closed window shutters were flung open; and night-capped heads--for most had been abed--appeared in them without fear exchanging speech with the soldiers halted in the street below.

Altogether different their behaviour when, in a matter of ten minutes after, a second party of hors.e.m.e.n came to a halt under their windows; these in scarlet coats, gold laced, with white ostrich feathers in their hats--the Prince of Wales's plume, with its appropriate motto of servility, "_Ich dien_."

Seeing it, the townsmen drew in their heads, closed the shutters, and were silent. Not going back to their beds, however; but to sit up in fear and trembling, till the renewed hoof-strokes told them of the halt over, and the red-coated Cavaliers ridden off again.

It need scarce be said that these were Rupert and his escort, _en route_ for Westbury; and had Walwyn's Horse stopped ten minutes longer in Mitcheldean, the two bodies would have there met face to face; since they were proceeding in opposite directions. A mere accident hindered their encountering; the circ.u.mstance, that from the town two roads led up to the Forest, one on each side of the Wilderness, both again uniting in the valley of Drybrook. The northern route had been taken by the Parliamentarian party ascending; while the Royalists descended by the southern one, called the "Plump Hill." Just at such time as to miss one another, though but by a few minutes. For the rearmost files of the former had barely cleared the skirts of the town going out, when the van of the latter entered it at a different point.

The interval, however, was long enough to prevent those who went Forestwards from getting information of what they were leaving so close behind. Could they have had that, quick would have been their return down hill, and the streets of Mitcheldean the arena of a conflict to the cry, "No Quarter!"

As it was, the hostile cohorts pa.s.sed peacefully through, out, and onwards on their respective routes; though Prince Rupert knew how near he had been to a collision, and could still have brought it on. But that was the last thing in his thoughts; instead, soon as learning what had gone up to the Forest, who they were, and who their leader, his stay in Mitcheldean was of the shortest, and his way out of it not Forestwards but straight on for the Severn.

And in all the haste he could make, c.u.mbered as he was with captives.

For he carried with him a captive train; a small one, consisting of but three individuals--scarce necessary to say, Ambrose Powell and his daughters. They were on horseback; the ladies wrapped in cloaks, and so close hooded that their faces were invisible. Even their figures were so draped as to be scarce distinguishable from those of men; all done with a design, not their own; but that of those who had them in charge.

In pa.s.sing through Mitcheldean precautions had been taken to hinder their being recognised; double files of their guards riding in close order on each side of them, so that curious eyes should not come too near. But, when once more out on the country road, the formation "by twos" was resumed; the trio of prisoners, each with a trooper right and left, conducted behind the knot of officers on the Prince's personal staff, he himself with Lunsford leading.

Soon as outside the town the two last, as usual riding together, and some paces in the advance, entered on dialogue of a confidential character. The Prince commenced it, saying,--

"We've had a narrow escape, Sir Thomas."

"Does your Highness refer to our having missed meeting the party of Roundheads?"

"Of course I do--just that."

"Then, I should say, 'tis they who've had the narrow escape."

"_Nein_, Colonel! Not so certain of that, knowing who they are. These Foresters fight like devils; and, from all I could gather, they greatly outnumber us. I shouldn't so much mind the odds, but for how we're hampered. To have fought them, and got the worst of it, would have been ruinous to our reputation--as to the other thing."

"It isn't likely we'd have got the worst of it. Few get the better of your Highness that way."

Lunsford's brave talk was not in keeping with his thoughts. Quite as pleased was he as the Prince at their having escaped an encounter with the party of Parliamentarians. For never man dreaded meeting man more than he Sir Richard Walwyn. Words had of late been conveyed to him-- from camp to camp and across neutral lines--warning words, that his old enemy was more than ever incensed against him, and in any future conflict where the two should be engaged meant singling him out, and seeking his life. After what he had done now, was still doing, he knew another encounter with Walwyn would be one of life and death, and dreaded it accordingly.

"Still, Prince," he added, "as you observe, considering our enc.u.mbrances, perhaps it's been for the best letting them off."

"Ay, if they let us off. Which they may not yet. Suppose some of the townsmen have followed, and told them of our pa.s.sing through?"

"No fear of that, Prince. If any one did follow it's not likely they could be overtaken. They were riding as in a race, and won't draw bridle till they see the blaze over Hollymead. Then they'll but gallop the faster--in the wrong direction."

"The right one for us, if they do. But even so they would reach Hollymead in less than an hour; then turn short round to pursue, and in another hour be upon our heels. You forget that we can't say safety, till we're over the Severn."

"I don't forget that, Prince. But they won't turn round to pursue us."

"Why say you that, Sir Thomas? How know you they won't?"

"Because they won't suspect our having come this way; never think of it.

Before putting the torch to the old delinquent's house, I took the precaution to have all his domestics locked up in an out-building; that they shouldn't see which way we went off. As they and the Ruardean people knew we came up from Monmouth, they'll naturally conclude that we returned thither. So, your Highness, any pursuit of us will take the direction down Cat's Hill, instead of by Drybrook and down the Plump."

"Egad! I hope so, Colonel. For, to speak truth I don't feel in the spirit for a fight just now."

It was not often Rupert gave way to cowardice, and more seldom confessed it; even in confidence to his familiars, of whom Lunsford was one of the most intimate. But at that hour he felt it to very fear. Perhaps from the wine he had drunk at Hollymead, now cold in him; and it might be his conscience weighted with the crime he was in the act of committing.

Whatever the cause, his nervousness became heightened rather than diminished, as they marched on; and anxiously longed he to be on the other side of the Severn.

Not more so than his reprobate companion, whose bravado was all a.s.sumed; his words of confidence forced from him to gloss over the mistake he had made, in recommending the route taken. Sorry was he now, as his superior, they had not gone by Monmouth. Within its Castle walls they would at that moment have been safe; instead of hurrying along a road, with the obstruction of a river in front, and the possibility of pursuit behind. Ay, the probability of it, as Lunsford himself knew well, feigning to ignore it.

"In any case, your Highness," he continued, in the same strain of encouragement, "we'll be out of their way in good time. From here it's but a step down to Westbury."

By this they had reached the head of the ravine-like valley in which stands Flaxley Abbey, and were hastening forward fast as the _impedimenta_ of captives would permit. The road runs down the valley, which, after several sinuosities, debouches on the Severn's plain. But, long before attaining this, at rounding one of the turns, their eyes were greeted by a sight which sent tremor to their hearts.

"_Mein Gott_!" cried the Prince, suddenly reining up, and speaking in a tone of mingled surprise and alarm, "you see, Sir Thomas?"

Sir Thomas did see--sharing the other's alarm, but without showing it--a sheet of water that shone silvery white under the moonlight overspreading all the plain below. The river aflood, and inundation everywhere!

"We'll not be able to cross at all?" pursued the Prince, in desponding interrogative. "Shall we?"

"Oh yes! your Highness, I think so," was the doubting response. "The water can't be so high as to hinder us; at least not likely. There's a pier-head at Westbury Pa.s.sage on both sides, and the boats will be there as ever. I don't antic.i.p.ate any great difficulty in the crossing, only we'll have to wade a bit."

"_Gott_! that will be difficulty enough--danger too."

"What danger, your Highness? Through the meadows there's a raised causeway, and fortunately I'm familiar with every inch of it. While with Sir John Wintour I had often occasion to travel it; more than once under water. Even if we can't make the Westbury Pa.s.sage, we can that of Framilode, but a mile or two above. I've never heard of it being so flooded as to prevent pa.s.sing over."