Captain O’Callaghan’s hand, in its black leather gauntlet, shot out and pointed at Giles.
“Your fellow there,” he said contemptuously. “Stop his mouth, Sir Nicholas. Stop his mouth, else begod I’ll stop it with a sword down his gullet!”
“When you are in my house, sir,” replied Fenton, with too-suave politeness, “you will permit me to command the servants. —Giles, have you given cause of offence to Captain O’Callaghan?”
Giles pursed up his lips.
“I fear so, sir. But you are here now, and may judge of his ‘errand.’ Be sure, be very sure, that he comes not from the Green Ribbon.”
There was a pause.
“The … what?” roared Captain O’Callaghan, in blank amazement.
“I refer, Sir Captain, to my Lord Shaftesbury and his Country party.”
O’Callaghan’s amazement boiled again into rage. His hand made a short, instinctive movement towards his sword grip. From Thunder, quivering beside Fenton, ripped so vicious a snarl that the captain’s head twitched round again.
“Hold!” said Fenton, in (almost) his usual voice.
Lacking strength to control the mastiff, he bent over Thunder and spoke soothingly. But his eyesight blurred and blackened as he stooped; he was compelled to stand up straight.
“Giles,” he said, “we have both blundered, you and I.”
“Blundered, sir?”
“Yes.” Fenton nodded towards the dragoon captain. “You have, in effect, asked of an Irish Catholic whether he would serve a body of murderers from the Church Established or a Puritan Conventicle that would kill him.”
“Ah!” grunted O’Callaghan.
“But that’s the least of it, Giles,” Fenton went on. “Our guest is of the army. By no wheedle could my Lord Shaftesbury or any of his lieutenants have brought him. The army are held fast in the grip of the King, and are at command of His Majesty alone.”
Giles’s face seemed to be greenish, like that of a shrewd, subtle man who for once has fallen into a trap. Fenton turned back to the visitor.
“But a word to you too, captain,” he said in a different voice. “Be not so bold with your threats to send a sword down my friend’s throat.”
“No?”
“No! And, over all, set not a hand on your sword as though in menace. Thunder here,” and Fenton patted the mastiff, “is much too close to you. He would tear forth your own throat before you could so much as lug out.”
“And would he so?” inquired O’Callaghan softly, with all swagger returning. As though in challenge, he half-darted his hand again towards the sword.
Thunder’s snarl was now echoed by Lion and Bare-behind. Thunder, sensing only danger to his master, gathered his hindquarters and poised for the leap.
Captain O’Callaghan’s face had become much less ruddy of complexion. His hand slowly fell to the side of his scarlet coat. But he would not budge an inch. He lounged there with his customary swagger, eyelids drooping, and twisted the ends of his moustache.
“Come,” said he, “this might be matter for a wager, now. Begod,” he roared, “I’d lay six to one I could cleave the brute’s head from his body ’fore he touched me!” The roar died away, and he almost pleaded. “But I’ve me juty to do, as I said, and I’ll do it.”
Again he drew himself up.
“Sir Nicholas Fenton, sir. Strike me dumb, but I must from this time take you into custody and escort you to the Tower, there to remain in durance until such time as … well, that’s the manner of it!”
Fenton merely stared at him, while the captain shifted his boots uncomfortably.
“The Tower?” repeated Fenton. And then, stupidly: “The Tower of London?”
“Ah, now, what other tower would there be?”
Fenton looked at Giles, whose face was as blank as his own.
“On what charge?”
“Sir Nicholas, I’m not permitted to tell ye that; and well ye should know it!”
“And yet, or so I understand, men committed to the Tower are sent there but on one charge alone? Treason?”
“Well,” grunted O’Callaghan, giving him a secret, affirmative wink, “if ye should fathom the charge for yourself …”
“Treason?”
“… ’tis no business of mine to deny it. Come, this could be worse! I’ve no doubt you’ll clear yourself in a week or two.”
“Captain,” said Fenton, with a fever in his mind, “I can’t deny your own good faith either. But this, I swear, is in some fashion the most monstrous error that ever was!” He touched the cameo ring on his left hand. “Ere you do this, may I have speech with the King himself? Or, if that be too much, may I send him a certain token?”
“You’d appeal to the King?” demanded O’Callaghan, and ceased twisting his moustache.
“I would so.”
“But, Sir Nicholas! Stab me, this order was signed by His Majesty’s own hand!”
Fumbling inside his uniform coat, Captain O’Callaghan drew out a tightly rolled sheet of parchment. He unrolled it only far enough so that the ribbons of the seal slid down, and the signature was exposed.
“Would ye be acquainted with this?” wondered the captain, in vast perplexity. “Well, look upon it!”
Fenton looked. He could not mistake that Charles R. Too many times had he seen it, on letters grown yellow when all these people were dust.
“It is the King’s hand,” Fenton assented.
While Captain O’Callaghan carefully put the scroll inside his coat, Fenton backed slowly away. Thunder followed him, turning and padding. Giles also followed.
When he saw the King’s signature on that scroll, Fenton had felt himself for one eyeflash between the present and the future. Then he knew that a great door had slammed, with all the clangour of its bolts, and shut him forever back into the past.
Lydia had gone from him. The King had deserted him. He was charged with treason; and few thus charged escaped the rope and the quartering axe and the disembowelling knife. The beloved past had turned into a monster, and apparently the devil would win hands down. Fenton was cold and lonely and disheartened, but …
“I am not yet beaten!” he said aloud.
“Eh?” exclaimed Captain O’Callaghan.
Carelessly Fenton pulled the ring off his middle finger, not wishing to explain what it meant. Again he felt that sense of stealthy movement through the house. But, without turning round, he threw the ring casually over his shoulder. He heard it roll and tinkle towards the back of the hall.
“Giles,” he said, “let it be swept up with other trash. Like the honour of the man who gave it, it is not worth a Birmingham groat. —And now, Captain O’Callaghan,” he snapped, “what if I were not minded to be taken?”
“Then, faith,” retorted the captain, “ye’ll be taken whether ’tis to your liking or no. You’re a fine brisk swordsman, Sir Nicholas, when you’ve got good legs under ye. But now what,” he mocked, “could ye do against my dragoons?”
A new voice struck across the hall, a voice loud and yet lazy.
“Why, scratch me,” said the voice, “but there’s some of us think we could do much.”
And George Harwell, heavy-footed and wine-flushed under the flaxen periwig, strolled out of the dining room. His silver-hilted rapier hung in its scabbard. But in his right hand he carried a backsword like the captain’s own.
“Here’s no business of yours, sir, whoever you are,” said O’Callaghan, looking hard at him. And then: “Ah, bejasus, you’re as drunk as a new-paid seafarer!”
“A trifle refreshed,” said George, “I well may be. This but loosens the tongue and lends cunning to the sword arm.” The single-edged backsword whistled and hissed as George drew patterns in the air. “But do ye think ye can take Nick Fenton, my bold dragoon? Look you there, at the back of the hall; and decide!”
Fenton himself, in the act of turning round, saw Giles at his elbow. He also saw Harry, the porter, with an armful of glittering weapons. Into Giles’s hands Harry thrust the ancient double-edged rapier with the ring hilt, and the shell-guard left-hand dagger. With the same weapons in his own hands, Harry moved back a pace or two.
Fenton swung round.
Up from belowstairs, against a hot red light, came Big Tom with a log bat on one shoulder and a heavy flintlock musket in his other hand. After him came Job, the groom, with a weighty musket slung by leather belt across his shoulder and a cudgel in each hand. Then followed thick-shouldered Whip, the coachman. And Sam, the door porter. …
Since flintlocks were new, replacing the old matchlock and supplied only to crack regiments, this must be some premeditated bribery on Giles’s part.
“Sir Nick,” whispered Giles, “glance but at the stairs leading upwards.”
Though neither of them could see the stairs, Fenton had already caught the soft, swift noise of footsteps. Round into the hall, almost silently, came every male servant in the house. They bore swords from the lumber room, and they had five heavy cavalry pistols. Even Dick, the stableboy, was there. Fenton turned round again.
Framed in the open front doorway, feet planted wide apart, Captain O’Callaghan surveyed them.
“Then you’re all so fond o’ treason?” he shouted. “You’d defy the King’s writ?”
“Nay, now,” said George easily. “We but defend Nick Fenton.”
“I tell you, man, ’tis folly! Why d’ye do this?”
Then George’s voice bellowed back.
“Too long,” George said, “hath he carried the burden of the fight on his own back, upholding those who stumble or fall! Too long hath God or devil, I know not which, crept unawares and stabbed him in the back! Too long hath he laboured in every man’s interest save his own! He shall not lose that labour now!”
From all the group behind Fenton rose up a murderous cry which was intended for a cheer.
And outside, beyond the elms and shadowy under a half-moon, the troopers of the dragoon file also stirred. A horse whinnied and reared up, showing the feelings of its rider. Somebody was swearing hard. There was a light patter of hoofs as the cornet rode past and cried an order.
“Unsling your carbines!”
It was answered, by Whip and Job and Old Tom and Sam and even Giles, with a roar that could not conceal delight. Behind him Fenton heard the thud, thud-thud as his own followers’ heavy muskets were set on their upright supports to fire.
George Harwell roared out again.
“Captain,” he said, “here are the men who fought the battle of Pall Mall, with more men besides. Now what will befall your poor dozen of dragoons? We’ll twist their necks like pigeons’; and cursed well you know it!” Here George controlled himself. “Go from the house unharmed, captain, to your men. And we’ll come fairly at you.”
“Ah, you can fight me!” said Captain O’Callaghan, not moving a step before the aimed muskets. “But can ye fight the whole military of the land? You’ll hang, every Jack-fool of ye, for justice’s sake!”
“Justice!” Fenton said aloud.
Many thoughts suddenly rearranged themselves as he had time to consider, and reflect that he had spoken and acted. He did not even note the open door of the withdrawing room. Just inside, where she had been waiting ever since Fenton came downstairs, stood Meg York. She was wrapped in a black hooded cloak; her face glimmered white, her lower lip was a blood smear where she had bitten, and the look in her eyes was hard to interpret.
“Stop!” Fenton cried out, and raised his hand. As he raised his hand every angry mutter, even the snarl of the mastiffs, trailed off into dead silence.
The man in the doorway was some fifteen feet away. Fenton, brushing aside Giles’s protest, sending back George with a fierce wave of the hand, went out alone to meet Captain O’Callaghan. O’Callaghan, hand hovering above sword grip, watched him warily.
“Captain,” said Fenton quietly, “I desire …”
Then it happened. Fenton’s weakness caught him and shook him as though with hands. He felt his head spin, and his foot slipped on the polished boards. Whereupon, with a horror of humiliation which burnt him like bodily pain, he fell face forwards at full length.
The Irish captain looked down at the stricken face of the man who tried to struggle up. Captain O’Callaghan, after a brief struggle with himself, felt his wrath melt away.
“Ah, strike me dumb!” he muttered. And then, with gruff respect: “By your leave, Sir Nicholas,” he said.
Bending forwards, so that the black periwig and the broad-brimmed hat with the scarlet plume dipped like ship’s colours, he assisted Fenton to stand up straight.
“Prince Rupert’s own self,” said Captain O’Callaghan in a loud voice, “hath oft lost flesh from wounds or lack of food, and been far weaker than you. Take no shame for this. By God, sir! I honour you that you are here at all.”
It was as though a strange healing, a soothing of ferocity as a dog is soothed, stole almost imperceptibly through the hall.
“I thank you for your civility,” replied Fenton. “I desired but to say that my words, a while ago, were hasty and ill-considered. As thus: the murderer of my wife …”
Again bewilderment smote the captain.
“… the murderer of my wife is not yet come to justice. I must study how to accomplish this, and be no brawler. Further, no more blood must be shed for me by my household. I thank you finally for your patience, sir, and yield myself up as your prisoner.”
Captain O’Callaghan looked at the floor. He eyed a corner of the ceiling. He looked everywhere except at Fenton.
“Well!” he said from deep in his throat. “Well!”
“May I suppose, then, that in report you will say nothing as touches my servants? No matter of hanging, or the like?”
“Sir Nicholas, I’ve forgot it this minute!”
“Then I am ready. Er—am I permitted to carry with me a few books?”
“Books?” Captain O’Callaghan was taken aback. “Oh, ay. Books. Hem! Well, they may follow you tomorrow, together with more important things: clothes (stab me!) and more bedding should you wish it. Meanwhile …”
At the back of the hall there was a savage noise like a struggle. Up spoke the harsh voice of Whip, the coachman.
“Sir,” he called fiercely, “what of the woman Pamphlin?”
Fenton, glancing over his shoulder, saw that they had brought her abovestairs. Judith Pamphlin’s hands were bound behind her back to a length of chain held in the hard grasp of Whip, who had discarded weapons. He shoved her violently forward out of the first rank.
It was plain they had clapped a clean dress on her angular figure, to hide lash weals or bruises. But her muddied hair was round her shoulders, and out of it peered a long face, dirty and bruised. It might have inspired pity if her rheumy eyes had not been alive and steady with malice.
“Nick,” said George Harwell, his mouth working and twisting, “they must have told you what Pamphlin’s done. She let you go forth without a sign that Lydia lay in agony! She would not even tell the remedy that might have cured!”
Fenton looked briefly at her, and swallowed.
“She is but as fanatic a Roundhead as I am a Royalist,” he said, and looked away. “Let her go free in peace.”
“Sir?” blurted Whip.
“Such is my command.”
No other protest was raised, not even a word. But from the back of the hall came a soft noise, like the hissing of many breaths indrawn; and it was very ugly to hear.
“Let us go,” said Fenton hastily. “Unless there be aught else for me to do?”
“I must ask for your sword.” Again Captain O’Callaghan grew fiery with embarrassment; no moustache-twisting could hide it. “That’s to sa
y,” he added quickly, “only that it be left here, apart from you. Certes you’ve a cursed odd household; but ’tis none of my affair.”
Giles Collins moved forward softly. He thrust the dagger into his belt, but the bright rapier he fingered lovingly as he looked under his eyelids at the dragoons outside. Slowly Fenton unbuckled his own sword belt over the under belt. With an effort he threw the sword towards Giles, who caught the scabbard flat against his palm.
“I shall not need it soon again,” said Fenton.
“That may be so. And yet I have a presentiment,” answered Giles, “that there will be one last great fight.”
All those in the doorway started a little and shifted their eyes, even Captain O’Callaghan, at the hoarse cry of triumph from Judith Pamphlin.
“Now is the proud man taken as a traitor,” she sneered; and she screamed and screamed so that weapons clashed in the hall. “Behold, he that corrupted my lady into the ways of flesh, and all manner of sinfulness, is smitten low by the power of the Laard! As ’tis writ in the Book of Revelations, he shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God!”
The woman was violently trembling in sheer ecstasy, so that even the chain rattled with her angular body.
“‘And the smoke of their torment,’” she cried, “‘ascendeth up for ever and ever: and they shall have no rest day nor night, who worship the beast and his image, and whosoever receiveth the mark of his name.’” Malice gleamed through holiness and piety in her Puritan triumph. “It was writ for you and yours, man of blood. Can you quote a better text?”
Fenton, about to hurry out past Captain O’Callaghan, stopped and looked at her.
“‘Come unto Me,’” he said, “‘all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’”
Fenton turned away. Vaguely he noted, as the front door creaked, that no bar had been put up.
“A better text, I think?” he muttered, half to himself. “I must remember it, in future, for Lydia’s sake.”
The Devil in Velvet Page 35