He called on Hodgson to loose his hands that were bound this while, which being done he spat in his right palm and held it forth to my lady, saying: “Archie Noble, called Wait-about-him, till morrow sunrise.”
Again she looked to us, and I told her, though my heart was like lead for this rash proceeding, that it was their way, and if she took his hand in a like clasp there should need no other oath. So she put out her small hand that I marvelled to see tremble, but he took it not, and she understanding made a little spit in her palm, and was a moment confused (and I think displeased) before she put it forth again. Which being done he held it yet a moment and, stooping quickly, kissed it, which to me was the greatest wonder of all. She asked what did he need for Triermain, and he said so she made him free of the armoury and stables she need no further care, and begged leave to withdraw “for there is much to do if I am to be in Triermain by day-go-down. Save you, lady.”
She turned and went straightway to the window, and he begged me attend him in the armoury presently. Supposing he meant to make confession I assented, and he being gone, was minded to speak to my lady, though hardly knew in the tumult of my thoughts what to say, or that it would do good. And as I waited, came the lout Wattie, that had been by the door all unnoticed, who after some loitering crept to her softly at the window, and there down on his knees by her. Seeing her occupied he gave little coughs and grunts and made bold to touch her hem, at which she looked frowning and asked him what he did there.
“To serve you, lady,” says he, and wiped his great nose and stammered but took never his eyes from hers. “I cannot fight in arms nor sword at all, Lady Madge, but I’ll do as the broken man bids me, Lady Madge, Lady Madge.”
“Why call you me that?” she asked, and he said he had ever done, at which she looked perplexed and shook her head, and I saw her thoughts were elsewhere. The clown put up his hand, but timidly, and she not thinking took it, at which he fell to slobbering her fingers with kisses, and called her again Lady Madge, Lady Madge, which I thought to disgust her, for he was foul. And indeed she took her hand away, but gently, and bade him mend the fire.
I SOUGHT HODGSON presently that was in the buttery washing his wits, so shaken was he at what had passed and was to come, and put it to him what might be done to turn my lady from her purpose. But I had as well talked to the wind that dries my shirt, for he shook like one in an ague, full of frightened oaths, and cried out that she would have her way surely, so let it be and come what might, it was not for us to cross her or meddle anyways. When I spoke of the Land Sergeant he swore the matter was no one’s charge but my lady’s, and for fear of her he durst not send word to Carleton nor yet the Warden himself, “for she is set, by God, and let what will fall at Triermain, aye, if she set the March in a blaze, ’tis her own affair and we but servants well quit on’t. God help us, God help us,” and so to his pot again to drown his fears in October.
So I betook me to Waitabout in the armoury in the old tower, and found him sat against the wall putting an edge to a broadsword and sang to himself in the fashion they have, being great spinners of songs and rhymes upon anything. It was an old song, he said, and apt to the occasion.
I hear it told on the borderside
That some maun walk and some maun ride
And some will fly and some will stay
But a Dacre never runs away.
The which, he said smiling, we had the proof of. I wondered to find him so blithe who went soon on such a venture, but he answered me that one who has sat in the Lickingstone Cell minds not the Castle guardroom, meaning, from a proverb they have in Carlisle, that he having been near put to the gallows looked on the peril of the Nixons as a lesser evil. The thought of which set me shaking in despair for him that must ride that road, and minding why I came there to comfort him, I asked would he now make his confession, in especial for that Pringle he had slain with all his sins on his soul, so he had died unprepared. He answered smiling that Black Dod had died “unexpected” but not “unprepared”, a different thing, “for see thou, father, there be two sorts of men prepared for death always, your saints that know themselves clean of all wrong, and your men of blood that have ridden long with Death grinning at their elbow, so are they ever ready for him, what of gallows or sword or drowning-pit or what you will.”
I told him it was no time to chop words lightly, and it lay heavy on him that Pringle had died unshriven for his immortal soul sake, to which he said scandalously that Black Dod had no more soul than Granny Storey’s pig, so let it be, he was ready for hell-fire that same Pringle, if he believed in it, which Waitabout said he doubted that he did.
Such blasphemy had moved me to anger once, yet I had heard the like and often in the border country, for the truth is that while the half of them are of the Old Faith or the New the other half are the veriest pagans, as I told you before of their wicked jest that said they were no Christians but Armstrongs and Elwoods. I had not looked to find him such, that had by his own account been schooled by Gilpin of Tynedale, that was a good priest if something savage by report. So I spoke him gently, saying that the Pringle’s belief was more than he knew for, and a soul he had for all that, but it had passed unshriven. He said that might be, yet Black Dod had no thought to it, “for at the last ‘twas not for a priest he cried, but only ‘Thou? Thou, Archie Noble, bastard thou! Not fit, man, not fit!’ For seest thou, father, ’twas unexpected to him, as I told thee, that such as I should be his bane, and galled him sore. But of his soul he thought not at all.”
I rebuked him that this was rambling talk and unseemly, yet in the heart of me I marvelled, and do yet, to hear a stark man bred of that border tell me that in the deed of slaying he had looked in the other’s eyes and thought to see what lay within. I told him it was no matter for that, for whatever of the Pringle, he now had his own soul to make, and he must confess himself to me.
He said he would not, nor had ever done, and if soul he had it was his own and he would make it his own way, “as I told Father Gilpin and was cast out wi’ a right grand cursing, yet he blessed me, too, for that was his way.”
Keeping to my road I remonstrated to him, and spake of God and the damnation that awaited those who were not within His grace, as he was not that would go presently into death’s shadow, and he laughed and asked did I know the tale of the old reiver that forayed the Hell road? I would have shut my ears to this, but he asked again did I know the tale, and at the last I must even listen.
There was an old reiver, he said, away back in the time before the saints came to the borderland and the folk knew not God but their own heathen spirits. He had voyaged o’ horseback three score years and more, doing great spoil and murder, but now was greatly aged beyond his tribe, his old gangers being long dead and he solitary. When the saints came bringing in the Gospel, and baptised many, they sought out the old reiver and told him of the Faith and of repentance and absolution and salvation assured, if he would be baptised. The which pleased him until, the moment of baptism being come, he asked what of his old riding comrades long dead, how should they, not being baptised, have salvation. The saints told him that such were damned to eternal torment in Hell for their horrid lives, but he repenting and being baptised might be saved. “Then I’ll none o’ your baptism,” says the old reiver. “Nay, man, Hell road or any other, I ride wi’ my gang.”
And having done, asked me, would my God turn His face away from the old reiver, “for if ye say ‘Aye, He would’, as I know ye must, then I tell ye straight, father, He is no God for me.”
At this I gave way to anger, and told him his parable was of the Devil and a fitting godless legend for a godless folk, at which he laughed and said he had it from Father Gilpin himself, “who was as good a priest as you, surely. And taught me God is love, yet asked did any man have greater love than the old reiver?”
Seeing myself mocked and knowing not how to answer, I said bitterly he had gotten himself little good from this same Gilpin and asked what other blasphemy he had le
arned him, for I was in a rage at his gibes and deceits. He put off his droll face, and said he had done him great good, teaching him his letters, and much besides from three books that he kept ever by him, one being a Latin Bible, and another the Babees Booke “from which he taught me to keep sharp my knife to cut honestly my own meat, and drink not with a full mouth, which had I minded when gluttoning in my lady’s kitchen this night past, I had not been taken likely.” Gilpin’s third book, he said, was the Travels of John Mandeville, full of wonderful tales, and asked me “that have been about the world, are they true or no, the basilisks and the Head Right Hideous, and the folk that go upon the one foot, hey, father?”
Knowing again that he mocked, yet I answered him, they were not true for aught that I had seen, but that all things were possible.
“Aye,” says Waitabout, “God and the Anthropophagi both,” and then begged my pardon if he had given offence by his lightness, “for it were best we left talk of God, which can only be uncomfortable between us.” But if I wished to say Mass for the Pringle’s soul, he would pay the shot, if he came through the night’s work at Triermain.
I marvelled at the man who was such as I never saw nor heard before, that spake blasphemy with an easy smile, yet when I looked into his eyes could see no fault there, and wondered was he the Devil in a fair shape, yet knew him in my heart to be a man as other men. I knew not what to make of him that had so disturbed my poor mind, and gave me mighty distress of spirit for giving me to think what should not be thought upon, yet this only I knew, that speak and seem and be what he would, I might put trust in him as in no other that I ever knew, for good or ill.
While we spoke, he was about the armoury and ratching through the gear there, and plain to see he was at work that he knew and liked well, smiling and whistling as he assayed what of spears and swords and lances, weighing them in his hand and proving points and edges right soldierly, trying sundry knives and poniards, looking thoroughly to dags and calivers with their shot and powder, and said there was gear enough to face a Scotch army, could fit men be found for them. “And whether the Bells be such, God alone knoweth.”
Then turned on me, leaning on a lance, and regarded me a long while, and I silent in my trouble for what he had said before and my grief of knowing that I could do him no good by my office. Then spoke, telling me that he could no ways to Triermain alone, for that the folk would not heed him that was less than themselves, “unless some better person come to give assurance that I am in my lady’s service and stand for her. The bailiff I’ll none of, for he is one that would make bad worse in dealing with the Bells, and I doubt besides if oxen could draw him from Askerton this night. So,” and looked on me with his crooked smile, “I must lean on the Church which is strong and endureth. Will ye to Triermain, Father Lewis, and speak my lady’s desire? They will heed you. And being come, you had best bide, for when all’s done you will still find much to do.”
Now as God sees me I would have said him nay but could not, for detest as I might the fell compact made ’twixt my lady and him, yet what he said was true, and I only could lay it open to the Bells what he came for, and was her man to direct them. Unless my lady herself had gone to lay command on them, but at this he shook his head.
“She must bide here, and that’s ower close to the fray for my liking. I’d bid her to Carel, but she’s the owd dog’s bitch and would not go. Or would she heed you, father?”
I said she would not, and need not, for the Nixons would dare no attempt on her person, being of such consequence.
“Get away!” cries he, in that scorning way they have. “Man, Ill Will Nixon would lift Our Lady o’ Carel herself if a’ thought there was ransom or advantage in’t! And she’d not be the first, neither, as Percy’s lady could tell thee.” By which he meant the Countess of Northumberland that was held by the Liddesdales and sore mistreated in the great rising. “Well, aye, a’ the March kens by now that Dacre’s lass is hame, and if Triermain was to fall the night, why, ’tis none so far on to Askerton, as the Nixons ride.”
This put me in great alarm for her sake, but again he shook his head and bade me be quiet.
“Triermain’ll not fall,” says he. “Not this road. So, father, will ye go with me?” And though I would fain have had no part in it, as a thing unbefitting, and to tell truth for my terror of the Nixons, yet I consented, and asked what order he would take at Triermain, for it seemed to me (who had seen something of like work in Mexico) that if he could put some stomach into the Triermains, to make a show enough, the Nixons might think better of their attempt, and no blood be spilled. He looked hard on me a moment.
“Why, that’s to be seen, father. But I tell you I go as ‘twere to Flodden Edge, aye, ready for a fray. Pacem volens, parans bella, seest thou,” and now took much care in choosing two bow staves, bending them behind his thigh and weighing the draw when he had strung them, most yeomanly, and shafts also of which he waxed the heads. To see this arming of so much tackle put me in dismay, yet out of curiosity I asked what need of bows when he had pieces enough to shoot with. He answered that he would trust to no pieces that might misfire on a damp night, “and besides a man that minds not a popgun at his breast will fall to thinking of bed and safety when ye cover him wi’ a cold chisel head on a yard of ash. Aye, father, ’tis wonderful how they fear the long bow yet!”
When he had gathered the gear together, with a few steel caps and jacks, he called the lad Wattie and bade him take all down to the barnekin gate, and then go quietly to the stable for an ass to carry it, and bring also his own horse and another to the gate. The clown was all eager, and would have sought leave of the bailiff, but Waitabout forbade.
“Let him be, and my lady also. If none should see you, ‘tis no matter, and if any should ask, tell ’em you do her bidding. Away, now, as secret as you can, for the light will go soon, and I would have of it what I may.”
I asked should we not see my lady afore we went, and he swore he would as soon take leave of the parish council “that change their minds but once each quarter hour, so my lady may prove a weathercock like all her sex, and like as not will repent her design and put my neck in a halter again. We have our gear and our charge and a clear way to Triermain; ’tis enough.”
Such hasty proceeding put me in a swither that two hours since had had no thought but supper and bed, and now found myself rushed away by this active fellow. But I protesting, he told me shortly that I might stay or go, but it must be now, and busied himself putting a shirt under his jack, with a steel cap or salade, and girding on a sword and poniard. I put off my habit and shoes and took boots and a cloak, and on his advice a steel cap also, which I no wise wished, but he said none but a fool would venture on such an errand with less. “If it sorts not with your calling,” says he, “mind that the Nixons sort not with it either. And seeing you accoutred, the Triermains are the more like to accoutre themselves.” He would have had me take a weapon also against the need of defence, but this I would not do, telling him that on no account would I raise a hand if the fray rose, not though I was martyred for it. He smiled and said that was as I pleased.
We helped the boy Wattie with the gear down the windstair, for the armoury lay in the old keep hard by the barnekin gate through which they were wont to bring in the kye in time of peril. Wattie brought also the horses and ass, and told us it was done secretly, all the household being gotten indoors with the weather that had become foul as the day wore. This pleased Waitabout, in such haste as he was to begone. Not so I, liking all less and less by the minute, not only for my own base fear of my skin, but for the harm that such mad work might bring upon my lady whose thoughtless enterprise it was. Again I besought that we go in to her (in truth thinking that she might stay me) and he, all bustling as he bound the gear upon the ass, asked would I have her give him her scarf to bear as a favour on his lance point? At this I grew angry, from my fear and misgiving and to be thus pushed on, but he minded me not and told Wattie to keep close until we were well gon
e, so that if they came to question him it would be too late to let us. But this the churl would not consent to.
“I’s gan wi’ thee,” says he. “I can stand wi’ ye at Triermain, aye, against the Nixons or a’body! Ye’ll never leave us, man!”
I bade him go in and keep to his place, but he shook his head and vowed he would go, “for service to Lady Madge”. Waitabout told him that here was no work for him, and he would but peril himself to no purpose, but the clown stood fast and swore he would follow if we left him. “I can strike a stroke!” cries he. “I told Lady Madge, and she never said us nay! I can strike a stroke, sitha!”
“Why, fool,” I told him, “here shall be no strokes, God willing, but a show of force against thieves. And thou’rt a kitchen knave, go to!”
“And thoo’s a priest!” cries the saucy villain, and fell to begging Waitabout, who seeing no help for it, told him he might go, and Wattie skipped and cracked his fingers, to my great sadness, to see a poor fool so eager to be in harm’s way.
Now with the day wearing down the wind rose, with a great storm of sleety rain, so that we were soaked to the skin before ever we had mounted, and I bitterly repenting that I had given my word to go, fearing that which waited and wetter than any fish. But now it was past mending, and Waitabout bade Wattie set wide the barnekin gate for we had tarried long enough. Which he did, and then gave a great cry, and looking I saw that one stood at the corner of the peel and it was my lady, all in a great cloak and hood and her shoon sorrily wet in the puddles. I went to her, and she asked what I did there, and on my telling her that I must with Waitabout to Triermain to make all plain to the Bells, she said it was well, and thanked me for my care of her interest. This was less than I had looked for, hoping she might give up her design, or at least forbid my going. She looked to Waitabout sitting his mare by the gate with his lance across his thigh, and seemed about to speak, but said nothing, and he too spake no word. I went to him and said, would he not speak to the lady, but he would not, although they looked on each other, and again I felt that knowing between them.
The Candlemass Road Page 7