Cue for Treason

by Trease Geoffrey

  Kit followed. I got hold of her under the armpits and pulled, and she knocked me backwards into the bracken as she came.

  ‘You'd best not come back yourselves,’ said Dad, putting his head through.

  ‘Not come back?’

  ‘No, till we know how this little to-do is going to end. Just tell the neighbours, and they'll see we're all right. Once you're out of the way, you'd better keep out of the way. Those horses you brought are still waiting in Mr Bell's stable. You'd best make for Keswick at once, while Sir Philip's occupied here, and see Mr Armthwaite.’

  ‘All right, Dad. Good-bye!’ We dropped on all fours and slid through that bracken like adders.

  20. Then Who is Loyal?

  WE crossed the beck just above the waterfall, and then there was still better cover, for a stone wall, which we always called ‘the new fence’, though it had been built by my grandfather, ran most of the way along the fellside to the next farm. We were able to stand up here and peep.

  The besiegers were moving stealthily into position, making a wide circle round the flank of the house so that Dad couldn't get them within bowshot. Even with the help of Mother's cauldron of boiling water, I didn't think the door could be held more than ten or fifteen minutes. After that, I think Dad's plan was to retreat upstairs, behind a barricade of furniture, and try to keep the men at bay till help arrived. I hoped matters would not reach that pass. I was afraid Sir Philip might set the house on fire.

  Luckily, the wall was a high one and we no longer had to crawl. We ran at full pelt, and I'm bound to say that when I rushed panting into Bell's farmyard, Kit wasn't ten yards behind.

  We gasped out our story and, without more ado, began to saddle the horses we had ridden from London. Mr Bell called to his sons and fetched his pike from the kitchen.

  ‘We'll go straight up along,’ he said quietly. ‘If you see any of the other neighbours as you go down the road, tell ’em to follow on.’

  ‘I will,’ I said.

  Our Cumbrian statesmen are the best neighbours in the world. Lose yourself in the snow or twist your ankle on the crags, they'll turn out uncomplainingly to help. During this last year our people in Lonsdale had got particularly neighbourly, for they knew they had an enemy in common. The theft of their common lands had first rallied them against Sir Philip and the events of the last day or two (though they had only a faint glimmering notion of what it was all about) had knit them into a closer comradeship. Sir Philip might be within his strict legal rights in bringing a warrant to search our house, but we statesmen had learnt that legal rights were not everything. They knew Dad was their friend and Sir Philip their enemy. Though they swung for it in Carlisle market-place, they were not going to stand by while a Brownrigg was in trouble.

  So, as we galloped down the dale, our shouts brought the menfolk of every family running together, and in twos and threes, armed with every kind of weapon from a pitchfork to a crossbow, they went hurrying up the road to strike a blow at their local tyrant.

  ‘I feel ashamed to be leaving this,’ I said as we turned on to the main road.

  ‘They have plenty without us, Pete. We've something still more important.’

  ‘And we'd better hurry,’ I said, with a laugh, ‘or Sir Philip's crew will come pelting out of the dale in such a panic that we'll find them on our heels.’ I wasn't seriously afraid of that, because Sir Philip was much more likely to run for the safety of his big new house, and that lay in the opposite direction, Penrith way.

  Our horses were poorish beasts, for it would not have done for pedlar's boys to be too well mounted, but they were quite fresh and skittish after two or three days' rest in the stable. As it was mostly downhill to Keswick, we clattered along at a good speed.

  ‘Thank goodness this is nearly over,’ said Kit. ‘Excitement's all very well, but this has been a bit too much.’

  I agreed that I shouldn't be sorry when we had handed over our responsibilities to Mr Armthwaite. With our dispatch on its way to Sir Robert, with the forces of law and order mustering throughout the North, and with our own special enemy under lock and key, we should be able to feel that we could take life easily again.

  ‘Plenty to eat,’ I said.

  ‘And plenty of sleep.’

  ‘And a nice long swim in Derwentwater.’

  She burst out laughing at that. ‘Wasn't Ullswater yesterday enough for you?’

  ‘I don't want to see Ullswater again for a long time.’

  ‘It's the loveliest lake in the world,’ she snorted. ‘Don't forget I've got a house beside it, and some day I'm going to live there again.’

  That friendly argument kept us going as far as the town. The gentleman we were seeking lived on the far side of Keswick, close to Crosthwaite, and we passed several people I knew as we rode through the narrow streets. Some waved and shouted to me, others just stared with fallen jaws, as if I were a ghost, but I stopped for nobody. It would be pleasant to meet old friends when this matter was settled and I could walk the roads again without fear of interference. Just now I was too occupied with the work in hand.

  ‘What if he's not at home?’ asked Kit.

  ‘Plenty of other magistrates. But we won't turn back: we'll ride straight on till we do find someone.’

  But we were fortunate. We caught Mr Armthwaite just as he was leaving. A groom was walking two horses up and down in front of the steps – lovely glossy creatures, a roan gelding and a black mare. Mr Armthwaite had the reputation of being a fine judge of horseflesh.

  He came down the steps as we dismounted, a brisk little grey man, with a beard which looked as though it were frosted over, and questing eyes. I knew him by sight, but I don't suppose he knew me from Adam.

  ‘You want to see me, my lad? I'm in rather a hurry.’

  ‘It's important, sir.’

  ‘Oh; then, what is it?’

  I glanced at the groom. I didn't want to take any chances. ‘If you don't mind, sir, it's rather confidential. Perhaps – might we go indoors?’

  He gave me a quick, sharp look and an understanding smile. ‘Very well, my lad, perhaps you're wise. Come along in, come along in.’ He beckoned us up the steps, and led the way across a spacious hall, upstairs, and along a gallery. ‘In here, boys.’ We followed him into a panelled room with rows and rows of books and a magnificent window with coats of arms in coloured glass. I glanced through and saw a rose-garden underneath and a peacock marching up and down like a sentinel. Mr Armthwaite lived in great style.

  Once the door was closed behind us, he became even brisker, if possible, than before.

  ‘Out with it, lad. No one can hear us here.’ He fussed across to the window and shut the casement portion, which had been open.

  I told him, with a little prompting and correction from Kit, the story of our investigations and the discoveries we had made. He sat in his armchair with his finger-tips pressed together, saying nothing but ‘Dear me!’ at inter. When I had finished, he said:

  ‘And what do you wish me to do?’

  I looked a little surprised at that. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I suppose you will do what seems best to you.’

  ‘Certainly, certainly.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘I shall inform the necessary authorities. Dear me, it is lucky you came to me, my lad, and found me in! You might have gone to some of our magistrates with this story, and the result might have been quite disastrous. They might have told entirely the wrong people, and that would never have done.’

  I was a little puzzled by this tone, but I supposed it was his quaint elderly way. Men like magistrates sometimes behave oddly, I've noticed, because they are such important people that no one they know dares to criticize them to their faces.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, with a. dry little chuckle, and he strutted across the polished floor to where an orange bell-cord dangled against the panelling. ‘It would never have done for this news to fall into the wrong hands. All our plans would have been quite upset. I can't tell you how vexed we should have been if –
’

  ‘If you touch that bell-cord,’ said Kit in a high, nervous voice behind me, ‘you'll get something that will up-set you still more!’

  Mr Armthwaite turned, his jaw dropping, and I too spun round with a gasp of shocked amazement. Kit was standing very pale and tight-lipped, waggling her pistol in the direction of the magistrate.

  ‘What's up, you idiot?’ I demanded.

  ‘What is the meaning of –’ Mr Armthwaite began, but she cut him short rudely. I don't suppose he'd been interrupted so sharply in all the years he had sat on the Bench.

  ‘You know,’ she said. ‘Stand away from that bell. That's better. Keep quite still. Pete, lock the door and put the key in your pocket. Don't stand gaping! This man's as bad as the rest of them. Why were you going to ring the bell?' she snapped at him, jabbing the air with her pistol.

  ‘My dear lad,’ said Mr Armthwaite, recovering his poise a little, ‘have you taken leave of your senses? There's nothing in ringing a bell. There are letters to be written and sent –’

  ‘But not the letters we want written, or sent to the right people. It's Sir Philip Morton you mean to warn – goodness knows what you'd do with us, to keep us quiet.’ She spoke to me then, without taking her eyes off the old gentleman. ‘We've been unlucky, Pete. We've picked on another of that crew. We'd better get out of here.’

  ‘Give me the pistol,’ I said, and we made the exchange neatly, without for a second leaving Mr Armthwaite uncovered. His foxy eyes were questing round the room, and the truth of what Kit had said was written in his face.

  ‘What about the window?’ I suggested.

  Kit went to it and opened the casement. The fragrance of early roses and wet earth came flooding back into the room.

  ‘You and I could drop down here,’ she said, ‘but I don't think Mr Armthwaite's old bones would be improved by it!’

  ‘Good! Out you go, Kit, and run round to where we left the horses. I'll give you a minute's start, then I'll follow.’

  She swung her leg over the sill obediently. From the corner of my eye I saw her grubby brown hands cling for a moment, then let go. There was a dull thud from below.

  ‘You young rascals!’ Mr Armthwaite broke out. ‘My roses!’

  Funny how a man who had suddenly seen himself brought within the shadow of the scaffold displayed more concern for his precious flowers than for his own neck!

  ‘Stand right over there,’ I told him. I backed to the window, keeping him covered till the last possible moment. Then I turned and took a flying leap, landing on all fours in the soft earth and manure of the rose-bed. I picked myself up in a trice, and raced round the corner of the house. Somewhere within I heard a bell jangling as if the ringer had gone crazy.

  Kit was already mounted. The groom was still patiently walking the roan and the black up and down.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, I said to myself. There, in front of us, was the best horseflesh in the neighbour-hood, ready saddled and all. If we took it, we could show a clean set of heels to any pursuer. If we left it to our enemies we should be overtaken on our poor hacks before we had ridden a mile.

  ‘We're changing horses,’ I gasped to Kit, and I stuck the pistol under the groom's red nose. ‘Stand back! Let go those bridles, or –’

  He could see I meant it. He dropped back a few paces, gibbering with indignation and amazement. Kit needed no prompting; you could always rely on her to play up, and she was already astride the black mare.

  ‘I've a bullet for you, too, if you try any tricks!’ she called blood-thirstily; and by the time his eyes had swung round to her (as she knew they would) and he'd realized that she was actually unarmed, the ruse had served its purpose by giving me time to mount. The gelding danced skittishly as I dropped into the saddle, and I felt the joy that every man must feel when his knees first grip so superb an animal.

  Just then the most frightful hullabaloo of women arose inside the house, and a servant-girl appeared screeching at the top of the steps.

  ‘Come quick, Joe! The master's locked in! He wants the ladder 'gainst the window!’

  It was high time to be gone. I pressed the sides of the roan gelding, and he sprang forward with a scattering of gravel. Kit galloped half a length behind, and our old hacks, puzzled by this new arrangement, came racing behind us with streaming tails and manes, as if determined not to miss the fun.

  Through the gates we swept, and along the road, with the shouts and screams fading behind us. At the first corner we almost rode down my old schoolmaster, who was stumping along with his head down and his favourite volume of Horace tucked under his arm.

  ‘Brownrigg!’ he thundered as he raised his eyes and recognized me. ‘Stop, boy! Dismount from that –’

  But the rest of his words were choked by the fine June dust we had stirred as we swept by. Glancing back, I saw a dim figure brandishing that stick which I knew all too well. It was hard to realize that, to him, Peter Brownrigg was just one of the bigger boys who'd left school rather suddenly and disgracefully a year before. He'd never heard of Peter Brownrigg the actor or Peter Brownrigg the Secret Agent! Why don't old people realize how quickly a boy grows up?

  ‘Which way?’ panted Kit.

  Her eyes were shining. She rode the mare as though the pair of them were one creature – a centaur.

  ‘Through the town, then south.’ It was no good turning home again. We might run our heads straight into more trouble.

  We slowed to a trot as we passed through Keswick. There was no sense in attracting too much attention by dangerous riding in the narrow streets, though we couldn't expect to escape notice entirely. Mr Armthwaite's horses were of the kind that make men's heads turn appreciatively, and to see them ridden by boys was at least unusual.

  ‘We seem to have left our old friends behind,’ I said, meaning the horses. They had soon tired of the gallop.

  ‘Fair exchange,’ said Kit. ‘But I don't see Mr Armthwaite and his man catching us on those mounts.’

  ‘How on earth did you guess he was in the plot?’ I asked as we set our faces to the long climb up the shoulder of Castlerigg Fell.

  ‘Because he pretended he didn't know Sir Philip personally when you started your story. He was nervous then. He didn't know how things were going to turn out, and he was playing for safety. If he'd found it was all up with the plot, he'd have gone on denying that he knew Philip. But he does. I remember his face. They've dined at my guardian's on the same day, and I've watched them talking.’

  ‘It was lucky you did what you did,’ I said thankfully. ‘I can see his game now, of course. He'd have called his servants –’

  ‘And good-bye to all hope of sending that message to London!’

  ‘Phew! What a narrow escape!’

  We rode on in silence for a little way. Keswick lay beneath us in the green bowl of its valley, encircled by Skiddaw and the other fells. As yet there was no speck of pursuit on the winding road we had traversed.

  ‘It's wicked! ’ she burst out. ‘The whole countryside is riddled with treason – even the magistrates. Who is loyal? Who can be trusted?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. I could answer for most of the ordinary folk, like the statesmen of our own dale, but they couldn't send the urgent code message to the Government for which the situation called. The men who could have helped – magistrates, sheriffs, noblemen… Was there one I could name, and feel positive he wouldn't serve us as Mr Armthwaite had tried to do? So many of these families had taken part in the Rising of the North when Dad was a boy. Memories linger long in the dales, and there must be many who were ready to seek revenge.

  ‘Can you think of anyone?’ Kit insisted.

  ‘No, I can't.’

  ‘Then, what do you propose?’

  I bent forward and patted the horse's satin neck. ‘We must depend on ourselves alone – and these beauties. There's plenty of time, and we shan't be caught easily. We'd better ride to London and tell Sir Robert the news ourselves.’

  ‘I'm
ready to, if you are,’ she said.

  ‘Good!’

  I twisted in my saddle and looked back down the hill. Was it fancy, or was there already a dust-cloud rolling along upon our trail?

  21. The Road Lay Open

  THE road lay open before us, ribboning on by mountain and valley, heath and forest, for three hundred miles. We had nothing to do but ride. After the past few days, so packed with mysteries and misadventures, it was a relief to find ourselves with so simple and straightforward a task.

  Our horses made light of the stiff climb from Keswick, for we were only featherweights to carry. Soon the road levelled out and we were able to set them to a trot again. We came round the steep wooded knoll of Great Howe, and there was the long streak of Thirlmere, lying in its crack between Helvellyn and the Armboth fells.

  ‘Come on!’ cried Kit, and set the mare to a canter. I dug in my heels and shot level with her, and we thundered along the lakeside road, knee to knee.

  Rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub…

  Is there any drum which beats a more stirring tattoo than hooves on the hard-trampled earth?

  Rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub…

  Past the ancient bridge which spans the shallows and narrows of the mere, and links the two mansions of Dalehead and Armboth Hall… Were they in the conspiracy, I wondered, the Jacksons over the bridge and the Leathes at Dalehead, nestling between the lake and the road? I hoped not, for they were good old statesmen families, both of them, but we weren't going to take chances by turning aside to ask their help. We rode on…

  Helvellyn Gill came splashing across our road. Helvellyn Screes came sweeping down, the stony slopes looking in the heat-mist of noon as light and insubstantial as a grey silk hanging. Our road was the fringe or the hem, and the feathery trees were like tassels along the water's edge beneath us.