“Here is some devilry!” he cried. “Give me that key.”
He had no need for further questions. Here was a proof more eloquent than words to his ready wit. Sir Rowland or Richard, or both, were in some plot for the Duke’s ruin — perhaps assassination. Had not her very words shown that she herself was out of all sympathy with Monmouth? He was out of sympathy himself. But not to the extent of standing by to see his throat cut. She would have the plot succeed — whatever it might be and yet that he himself be spared. There his thoughts paused; but only for a moment. He saw suddenly in this, not a proof of concern born of love but of duty towards him who had imperilled himself once — and for all time, indeed — that he might save her brother and Sir Rowland.
He told her what had been so suddenly revealed to him, taxing her with it. She acknowledged it, her wits battling to find some way by which she might yet gain a few moments more. She would cling to the key, and though he should offer her violence, she would not let it go without a struggle, and that struggle must consume the little time yet wanting to make it too late for him to save the Duke, and — what imported more — thus save herself from betraying her brother’s trust. Another fear leapt at her suddenly. If through deed of hers Monmouth was spared that night, Blake, in his despair and rage, might slake his vengeance upon Richard.
“Give me that key,” he demanded, his voice cold and quiet, his face set.
“No, no,” she cried, setting her hand behind her. “You shall not go, Anthony. You shall not go.”
“I must,” he insisted, still cold, but oh! so determined. “My honour’s in it now that I know.”
“You’ll go to your death,” she reminded him.
He sneered. “What signifies a day or so? Give me the key.”
“I love you, Anthony!” she cried, livid to the lips.
“Lies!” he answered her contemptuously. “The key!”
“No,” she answered, and her firmness matched his own. “I will not have you slain.”
“’Tis not my purpose — not just yet. But I must save the others. God forgive me if I offer violence to a woman,” he added, “and lay rude hands upon her. Do not compel me to it.” He advanced upon her, but she, lithe and quick, evaded him, and sprang for the middle of the room. He wheeled about, his self-control all slipping from him now. Suddenly she darted to the window, and with the hand that clenched the key she smote a pane with all her might. There was a smash of shivering glass, followed an instant later by a faint tinkle on the stones below, and the hand that she still held out covered itself all with blood.
“O God!” he cried, the key and all else forgotten. “You are hurt.”
“But you are saved,” she cried, overwrought, and staggered, laughing and sobbing, to a chair, sinking her bleeding hand to her lap, and smearing recklessly her spotless, shimmering gown.
He caught up a chair by its legs, and at a single blow smashed down the door — a frail barrier after all. “Nick!” he roared. “Nick!” He tossed the chair from him and vanished into the adjoining room to reappear a moment later carrying basin and ewer, and a shirt of Trenchard’s — the first piece of linen he could find.
She was half fainting, and she let him have his swift, masterful way. He bathed her hand, and was relieved to find that the injury was none so great as the flow of blood had made him fear. He tore Trenchard’s fine cambric shirt to shreds — a matter on which Trenchard afterwards commented in quotations from at least three famous Elizabethan dramatists. He bound up her hand, just as Nick made his appearance at the splintered door, his mouth open, his pipe, gone out, between his fingers. He was followed by a startled serving-wench, the only other person in the house, for every one was out of doors that night.
Into the woman’s care Wilding delivered his wife, and without a word to her he left the room, dragging Trenchard with him. It was striking nine as they went down the stairs, and the sound brought as much satisfaction to Ruth above as dismay to Wilding below.
CHAPTER XIX. THE BANQUET
It was striking nine. Therefore, Ruth thought that she had achieved her object, Wilding imagined that all was lost. It needed the more tranquil mind of Nicholas Trenchard to show him the fly in madam’s ointment, after Wilding, in half a dozen words, had made him acquainted with the situation.
“What are you going to do?” asked Trenchard.
“Run to Newlington’s and warn the Duke — if still in time.”
“And thereby precipitate the catastrophe? Oh, give it thought. It is all it needs. You are taking it for granted that nine o’clock is the hour appointed for King Monmouth’s butchery.”
“What else?” asked Wilding, impatient to be off.
They were standing in the street under the sign of The Ship, by which Jonathan Edney — Mr. Trenchard’s landlord — distinguished his premises and the chandler’s trade he drove there. Trenchard set a detaining hand on Mr. Wilding’s arm.
“Nine o’clock is the hour appointed for supper. It is odds the Duke will be a little late, and it is more than odds that when he does arrive, the assassins will wait until the company is safely at table and lulled by good eating and drinking. You had overlooked that, I see. It asks an old head for wisdom, after all. Look you, Anthony. Speed to Colonel Wade as fast as your legs can carry you, and get a score of men. Then find some fellow to lead you to Newlington’s orchard, and if only you do not arrive too late you may take Sir Rowland and his cut-throats in the rear and destroy them to a man before they realize themselves attacked. I’ll reconnoitre while you go, and keep an eye on the front of the house. Away with you!”
Ordinarily Wilding was a man of a certain dignity, but you had not thought it had you seen him running in silk stockings and silver-buckled shoes at a headlong pace through the narrow streets of Bridgwater, in the direction of the Castle. He overset more than one, and oaths followed him from these and from others whom he rudely jostled out of his path. Wade was gone with Monmouth, but he came upon Captain Slape, who had a company of scythes and musketeers incorporated in the Duke’s own regiment, and to him Wilding gasped out the news and his request for a score of men with what breath was left him.
Time was lost — and never was time more precious — in convincing Slape that this was no old wife’s tale. At last, however, he won his way and twenty musketeers; but the quarter-past the hour had chimed ere they left the Castle. He led them forth at a sharp run, with never a thought for the circumstance that they would need their breath anon, perhaps for fighting, and he bade the man who guided them take them by back streets that they might attract as little attention as possible.
Within a stone’s-throw of the house he halted them, and sent one forward to reconnoitre, following himself with the others as quietly and noiselessly as possible. Mr. Newlington’s house was all alight, but from the absence of uproar — sounds there were in plenty from the main street, where a dense throng had collected to see His Majesty go in — Mr. Wilding inferred with supreme relief that they were still in time. But the danger was not yet past. Already, perhaps, the assassins were penetrating — or had penetrated — to the house; and at any moment such sounds might greet them as would announce the execution of their murderous design.
Meanwhile Mr. Trenchard, having relighted his pipe, and set his hat rakishly atop his golden wig, strolled up the High Street, swinging his long cane very much like a gentleman taking the air in quest of an appetite for supper. He strolled past the Cross and on until he came to the handsome mansion — one of the few handsome houses in Bridgwater — where opulent Mr. Newlington had his residence. A small crowd had congregated about the doors, for word had gone forth that His Majesty was to sup there. Trenchard moved slowly through the people, seemingly uninterested, but, in fact, scanning closely every face he encountered. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he espied in the indifferent light Mr. Richard Westmacott.
Trenchard passed him, jostling him as he went, and strolled on some few paces, then turned, and came slowly back, and observed tha
t Richard had also turned and was now watching him as he approached. He was all but upon the boy when suddenly his wrinkled face lighted with recognition.
“Mr. Westmacott!” he cried, and there was surprise in his voice.
Richard, conscious that Trenchard must no doubt regard him as a turn-tippet, flushed, and stood aside to give passage to the other. But Mr. Trenchard was by no means minded to pass. He clapped a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Nay,” he cried, between laughter and feigned resentment. “Do you bear me ill-will, lad?”
Richard was somewhat taken aback. “For what should I bear you ill-will, Mr. Trenchard?” quoth he.
Trenchard laughed frankly, and so uproariously that his hat over-jauntily cocked was all but shaken from his head. “I mind me the last time we met, I played you an unfair trick,” said he. His tone bespoke the very highest good-humour. He slipped his arm through Richard’s. “Never bear an old man malice, lad,” said he.
“I assure you that I bear you none,” said Richard, relieved to find that Trenchard apparently knew nothing of his defection, yet wishing that Trenchard would go his ways, for Richard’s task was to stand sentry there.
“I’ll not believe you till you afford me proof,” Trenchard replied. “You shall come and wash your resentment down in the best bottle of Canary the White Cow can furnish us.”
“Not now, I thank you,” answered Richard.
“You are thinking of the last occasion on which I drank with you,” said Trenchard reproachfully.
“Not so. But... but I am not thirsty.”
“Not thirsty?” echoed Trenchard. “And is that a reason? Why, lad, it is the beast that drinks only when he thirsts. And in that lies one of the main differences between beast and man. Come on” — and his arm effected a gentle pressure upon Richard’s, to move him thence. But at that moment, down the street with a great rumble of wheels, cracking of whips and clatter of hoofs, came a coach, bearing to Mr. Newlington’s King Monmouth escorted by his forty life-guards. Cheering broke from the crowd as the carriage drew up, and the Duke-King as he alighted turned his handsome face, on which shone the ruddy glow of torches, to acknowledge these loyal acclamations. He passed up the steps, at the top of which Mr. Newlington — fat and pale and monstrously overdressed — stood bowing to welcome his royal visitor. Host and guest vanished, followed by some six officers of Monmouth’s, among whom were Grey and Wade. The sight-seers flattened themselves against the walls as the great lumbering coach put about and went off again the way it had come, the life-guards following after.
Trenchard fancied that he caught a sigh of relief from Richard, but the street was noisy at the time and he may well have been mistaken.
“Come,” said he, renewing his invitation, “we shall both be the better for a little milk of the White Cow.”
Richard wavered almost by instinct. The White Cow, he knew, was famous for its sack; on the other hand, he was pledged to Sir Rowland to stand guard in the narrow lane at the back where ran the wall of Mr. Newlington’s garden. Under the gentle suasion of Trenchard’s arm, he moved a few steps up the street; then halted, his duty battling with his inclination.
“No, no,” he muttered. “If you will excuse me...”
“Not I,” said Trenchard, drawing from his hesitation a shrewd inference as to Richard’s business. “To drink alone is an abomination I’ll not be guilty of.”
“But...” began the irresolute Richard.
“Shalt urge me no excuses, or we’ll quarrel. Come,” and he moved on, dragging Richard with him.
A few steps Richard took unwillingly under the other’s soft compulsion; then, having given the matter thought — he was always one to take the line of least resistance — he assured himself that his sentryship was entirely superfluous; the matter of Blake’s affair was an entire secret, shared only by those who had a hand in it. Blake was quite safe from all surprises; Trenchard was insistent and it was difficult to deny him; and the sack at the White Cow was no doubt the best in Somerset. He gave himself up to the inevitable and fell into step alongside his companion who babbled aimlessly of trivial matters. Trenchard felt the change from unwilling to willing companionship, and approved it.
They mounted the three steps and entered the common room of the inn. It was well thronged at the time, but they found places at the end of a long table, and there they sat and discussed the landlady’s Canary for the best part of a half-hour, until a sudden spatter of musketry, near at hand, came to startle the whole room.
There was a momentary stillness in the tavern, succeeded by an excited clamouring, a dash for the windows and a storm of questions, to which none could return any answer. Richard had risen with a sudden exclamation, very pale and scared of aspect. Trenchard tugged at his sleeve.
“Sit down,” said he. “Sit down. It will be nothing.”
“Nothing?” echoed Richard, and his eyes were suddenly bent on Trenchard in a look in which suspicion was now blent with terror.
A second volley of musketry crackled forth at that moment, and the next the whole street was in an uproar. Men were running and shots resounded on every side, above all of which predominated the cry that His Majesty was murdered.
In an instant the common room of the White Cow was emptied of every occupant save two — Trenchard and Westmacott. Neither of them felt the need to go forth in quest of news. They knew how idle was the cry in the streets. They knew what had taken place, and knowing it, Trenchard smoked on placidly, satisfied that Wilding had been in time, whilst Richard stood stricken and petrified by dismay at realizing, with even greater certainty, that something had supervened to thwart, perhaps to destroy, Sir Rowland. For he knew that Blake’s party had gone forth armed with pistols only, and intent not to use even these save in the last extremity; to avoid noise they were to keep to steel. This knowledge gave Richard positive assurance that the volleys they had heard must have been fired by some party that had fallen upon Blake’s men and taken them by surprise.
And it was his fault! He was the traitor to whom perhaps a score of men owed their deaths at that moment! He had failed to keep watch as he had undertaken. His fault it was — No! not his, but this villain’s who sat there smugly taking his ease and pulling at his pipe.
At a blow Richard dashed the thing from his companion’s mouth and fingers.
Trenchard looked up startled.
“What the devil...?” he began.
“It is your fault, your fault!” cried Richard, his eyes blazing, his lips livid. “It was you who lured me hither.”
Trenchard stared at him in bland surprise. “Now, what a plague is’t you’re saying?” he asked, and brought Richard to his senses by awaking in him the instinct of self-preservation.
How could he explain his meaning without betraying himself? — and surely that were a folly, now that the others were no doubt disposed of. Let him, rather, bethink him of his own safety. Trenchard looked at him keenly, with well-assumed intent to read what might be passing in his mind, then rose, paid for the wine, and expressed his intention of going forth to inquire into these strange matters that were happening in Bridgwater.
Meanwhile, those volleys fired in Mr. Newlington’s orchard had caused — as well may be conceived — an agitated interruption of the superb feast Mr. Newlington had spread for his noble and distinguished guests. The Duke had for some days been going in fear of his life, for already he had been fired at more than once by men anxious to earn the price at which his head was valued; instantly he surmised that whatever that firing might mean, it indicated some attempt to surprise him with the few gentlemen who attended him.
The whole company came instantly to its feet, and Colonel Wade stepped to a window that stood open — for the night was very warm. The Duke turned for explanation to his host; the trader, however, professed himself entirely unable to offer any. He was very pale and his limbs were visibly trembling, but then his agitation was most natural. His wife and daughter supervened at that moment, in their alarm entering t
he room unceremoniously, in spite of the august presence, to inquire into the meaning of this firing, and to reassure themselves that their father and his illustrious guests were safe.
From the windows they could observe a stir in the gardens below. Black shadows of men flitted to and fro, and a loud, rich voice was heard calling to them to take cover, that they were betrayed. Then a sheet of livid flame blazed along the summit of the low wall, and a second volley of musketry rang out, succeeded by cries and screams from the assailed and the shouts of the assailers who were now pouring into the garden through the battered doorway and over the wall. For some moments steel rang on steel, and pistol-shots cracked here and there to the accompaniment of voices, raised some in anger, some in pain. But it was soon over, and a comparative stillness succeeded.
A voice called up from the darkness under the windows to know if His Majesty was safe. There had been a plot to take him; but the ambuscaders had been ambuscaded in their turn, and not a man of them remained — which was hardly exact, for under a laurel bush, scarce daring to breathe, lay Sir Rowland Blake, livid with fear and fury, and bleeding from a rapier scratch in the cheek, but otherwise unhurt.
In the room above, Monmouth had sunk wearily into his chair upon hearing of the design there had been against his life. A deep, bitter melancholy enwrapped his spirit. Lord Grey’s first thoughts flew to the man he most disliked — the one man missing from those who had been bidden to accompany His Majesty, whose absence had already formed the subject of comment. Grey remembered this bearing before the council that same evening, and his undisguised resentment of the reproaches levelled against him.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 181