Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  CHAPTER XIII.

  A WILLFUL MAN’S WAY.

  Only to feel that we were moving was a relief, though our march was very slow. Master Bertie carried the child slung in a cloak before him, and, thus burdened, could not well go beyond a smooth amble, while the guides, who were on foot, and the pack-horses, found this pace as much as they could manage. A little while and the exhilaration of the start died away. The fine morning was followed by a wet evening, and before we had left Emmerich three miles behind us Master Bertie and I had come to look at one another meaningly. We were moving in a dreary, silent procession through heavy rain, with the prospect of the night closing in early. The road, too, grew more heavy with each furlong, and presently began to be covered with pools of water. We tried to avoid this inconvenience by resorting to the hill slopes on our left, but found the attempt a waste of time, as a deep stream or backwater, bordered by marshes, intervened. The narrow road, raised but little above the level of the swiftly flowing river on our right, turned out to be our only possible path; and when Master Bertie discerned this his face grew more and more grave.

  We soon found, indeed, as we plodded along, that a sheet of water, which palely reflected the evening light, was taking the place of the road; and through this we had to plash and plash at a snail’s pace, one of the guides on a pack-horse leading the way, and Master Bertie in charge of his wife coming next; then, at some distance, for her horse did not take kindly to the water, the younger woman followed in my care. The other guide brought up the rear. In this way, stopped constantly by the fears of the horses, which were scared by the expanse of flood before them, we crept wearily on until the moon rose. It brought, alas, an access of light, but no comfort! The water seemed continually to grow deeper, the current on our right swifter; and each moment I dreaded the announcement that farther advance was impossible.

  It seemed to have come to that at last, for I saw the Duchess and her husband stop and stand waiting for me, their dark shadows projected far over the moonlit surface.

  “What is to be done?” Master Bertie called out, as we moved up to them. “The guide tells me that there is a broken piece of road in front which will be impassable with this depth of water.”

  I had expected to hear this; yet I was so dumfoundered — for, this being true, we were lost indeed — that for a time I could not answer. No one had uttered a word of reproach, but I knew what they must be thinking. I had brought them to this. It was my foolish insistence had done it. The poor beast under me shivered. I struck him with my heels. “We must go forward!” I said desperately. “Or what? What do you think? Go back?”

  “Steady! steady, Master Knight Errant!” the Duchess cried in her calm, brave voice. “I never knew you so bad a counselor before!”

  “It is my fault that you are here,” I said, looking dismally around.

  “Perhaps the other road is as bad,” Master Bertie replied. “At any rate, that is past and gone. The question is, what are we to do now? To remain here is to die of cold and misery. To go back may be to run into the enemy’s arms. To go forward — —”

  “Will be to be drowned!” Mistress Anne cried with a pitiful sob.

  I could not blame her. A more gloomy outlook than ours, as we sat on our jaded horses in the middle of this waste of waters, which appeared in the moonlight to be boundless, could scarcely be imagined. The night was cold for the time of year, and the keen wind pierced our garments and benumbed our limbs. At any moment the rain might begin afresh, and the moon be overcast. Of ourselves, we could not take a step without danger, and our guides had manifestly lost their heads and longed only to return.

  “Yet, I am for going forward,” the Duchess urged. “If there be but this one bad place we may pass it with care.”

  “We may,” her husband assented dubiously. “But suppose when we have passed it we can go no farther. Suppose the — —”

  “It is no good supposing!” she retorted with some sharpness. “Let us cross this place first, Richard, and we will deal with the other when we come to it.”

  He nodded assent, and we moved slowly forward, compelling the guides to go first. In this order we waded some hundred yards through water, which grew deeper with each step, until it rose nearly to our girths. Then the lads stopped.

  “Are we over?” said the Duchess eagerly.

  For answer one of them pointed to the flood before him, and peering forward I made out a current sweeping silently and swiftly across our path — a current with an ominous rush and swirl.

  “Over?” grunted Master Bertie. “No, this is the place. See, the road has given way, and the stream is pouring through from the river. I expect it is getting worse every minute as the banks crumble.”

  We all craned forward, looking at it. It was impossible to say how deep the water was, or how far the deep part might extend. And we had with us a child and two women.

  “We must go back!” said Master Bertie resolutely. “There is no doubt about it. The flood is rising. If we do not take care, we shall be cut off, and be able to go neither backward nor forward. I cannot see a foot of dry land, as it is, before or behind us.”

  He was right. Far and wide, wherever our eyes could reach, the moonlight was reflected in a sheet of water. We were nearly up to our girths in water. On one side was the hurrying river, on the other were the treacherous depths of the backwater. I asked the guide as well as I could whether the road was good beyond. He answered that he did not know. He and his companion were so terrified that we only kept them beside us by threats.

  “I fear we must go back,” I said, assenting sorrowfully.

  Even the Duchess agreed, and we were in the act of turning to retrace our steps with what spirit we might, when a distant sound brought us all to a standstill again. The wind was blowing from the quarter whence we had come — from Emmerich; and it brought to us the sound of voices. We all stopped to listen. Yes, they were voices we heard — loud, strident tones, mingled now with the sullen plash of horses tramping through the water. I looked at the Duchess. Her face was pale, but her courage did not fail her. She understood in a trice that the danger we had so much dreaded was upon us — that we were followed, and the followers were at our heels; and she turned her horse round again. Without a word she spurred it back toward the deep part. I seized Anne’s rein and followed, notwithstanding that the poor girl in her terror would have resisted. Letting the guides go as they pleased, we four in a moment found ourselves abreast again, our horses craning over the stream, while we, with whip and spur, urged them on.

  In cold blood we should scarcely have done it. Indeed, for a minute, as our steeds stumbled, and recovered themselves, and slid forward, only to draw back trembling — as the water rose above our boots or was flung by our fellows in our eyes, and all was flogging and scrambling and splashing, it seemed as if we were to be caught in a trap despite our resolve. But at last Master Bertie’s horse took the plunge. His wife’s followed; and both, partly floundering and partly swimming, set forward snorting the while in fear. To my joy I saw them emerge safely not ten yards away, and, shaking themselves, stand comparatively high out of the water.

  “Come!” cried my lady imperatively, as she turned in her saddle with a gesture of defiance. “Come! It is all right.”

  Come, indeed! I wanted nothing better, for I was beside myself with passion. But, flog as I might, I could not get Anne’s brute to take the plunge. The girl herself could give me no aid; clinging to her saddle, pale and half-fainting, she could only beg me to leave her, crying out again and again in a terrified voice that she would be drowned. With her cry there suddenly mingled another, the hail of our pursuers as they sighted us. I could hear them drawing nearer, and I grew desperate. Luckily they could not make any speed in water so deep, and time was given me for one last furious effort. It succeeded. My horse literally fell into the stream; it dragged Anne’s after it. How we kept our seats, how they their footing, I never understood; but, somehow, splashing and stumbling and blinded b
y the water dashed in our faces, we came out on the other side, where the Duchess and her husband, too faithful to us to save themselves, had watched the struggle in an agony of suspense. I did but fling the girl’s rein to Master Bertie; and then I wheeled my horse to the stream again. I had made up my mind what I must do. “Go on,” I cried, waving my hand with a gesture of farewell. “Go on! I can keep them here for a while.”

  “Nonsense!” I heard the Duchess cry, her voice high and shrill. “It is — —”

  “Go on!” I cried. “Go on! Do not lose a moment, or it will be useless.”

  Master Bertie hesitated. But he too saw that this was the only chance. The Spaniards were on the brink of the stream now, and must, if they passed it, overtake us easily. He hesitated, I have said, for a moment. Then he seized his wife’s rein and drew her on, and I heard the three horses go splashing away through the flood. I threw a glance at them over my shoulder, bethinking me that I had not told the Duchess my story, and that Sir Anthony and Petronilla would never — but, pish! What was I thinking of? That was a thought for a woman. I had only to harden my heart now, and set my teeth together. My task was very simple indeed. I had just to keep these men — there were four — here as long as I could, and if possible to stop Clarence’s pursuit altogether.

  For I had made no mistake. The first man to come up was Clarence — Clarence himself. He let fall a savage word as his horse stopped suddenly with its fore feet spread out on the edge of the stream, and his dark face grew darker as he saw the swirling eddies, and me standing fronting him in the moonlight with my sword out. He discerned at once, I think, the strength of my position. Where I stood the water was scarcely over my horse’s fetlocks. Where he stood it was over his horse’s knees. And between us it flowed nearly four feet deep.

  He held a hasty parley with his companions. And then he hailed me. “Will you surrender?” he cried in English. “We will give you quarter.”

  “Surrender? To whom?” I said. “And why — why should I surrender? Are you robbers and cutpurses?”

  “Surrender in the name of the Emperor, you fool!” he answered sternly and roughly.

  “I know nothing about the Emperor!” I retorted. “What Emperor?”

  “In the Queen’s name, then!”

  “The Duke of Cleves is queen here!” I cried. “And as the flood is rising,” I added scornfully, “I would advise you to go home again.”

  “You would advise, would you? Who are you?” he replied, in a kind of wrathful curiosity.

  I gave him no answer. I have often since reflected, with a fuller knowledge of certain facts, that no stranger interview ever took place than this short colloquy between us, that no stranger fight ever was fought than that which we contemplated as we stood there bathed in the May moonlight, with the water all round us, and the cold sky above. A strange fight indeed it would have been between him and me, had it ever come to the sword’s point!

  But this was what happened. His last words had scarcely rung out when my horse began to quiver under me and sway backward and forward. I had just time to take the alarm, when the poor beast sank down and rolled gently over, leaving me bestriding its body, my feet in the water. Whatever the cause of this, I had to disentangle myself, and that quickly, for the four men opposite me, seeing me dismounted, plunged with a cry of triumph into the water, and began to flounder across. Without more ado I stepped forward to keep the ford.

  The foremost and nearest to me was Clarence, whose horse began, half-way across, to swim. It was still scrambling to regain its footing when it came within my reach, and I slashed it cruelly across the nostrils. It turned in an instant on its side. I saw the rider’s face gleam white in the water; his stirrup shone a moment as the horse rolled over, then in a second the two were gone down the stream. It was done so easily, so quickly, it amazed me. One gone! hurrah! I turned quickly to the others, who were about landing. My blood was fired, and my yell of victory, as I dashed at them, scared back two of the horses. Despite their riders’ urging, they turned and scrambled out on the side from which they had entered. Only one was left, the farthest from me. He got across indeed. Yet he was the most unlucky of all, for his horse stumbled on landing, came down heavily on its head, and flung him at my very feet.

  I LUNGED TWICE AT THE RIDER

  It was no time for quarter — I had to think of my friends — and while with one hand I seized the flying rein as the horse scrambled trembling to its feet, with the other I lunged twice at the rider as he half tried to rise, half tried to grasp at me. The second time I ran him through, and he screamed shrilly. In those days I was young and hotheaded, and I answered only by a shout of defiance, as I flung myself into the saddle and dashed away through the water after my friends.

  Vœ victis! I had done enough to check the pursuit, and had yet escaped myself. If I could join the others again, what a triumph it would be! I had no guide, but neither had those in front of me; and luckily at this point a row of pollard willows defined the line between the road and the river. Keeping this on my right, I made good way. The horse seemed strong under me, the water was shallow, and appeared to be growing more so, and presently across the waste of flood I discerned before me a dark, solitary tower, the tower seemingly of a church, for it was topped by a stumpy spire, which daylight would probably have shown to be of wood.

  There was a little dry ground round the church, a mere patch in a sea of water, but my horse rang its hoofs on it with every sign of joy, and arched its neck as it trotted up to the neighborhood of the church, whinnying with pleasure. From the back of the building, I was not surprised, came an answering neigh. As I pulled up, a man, his weapon in his hand, came from the porch, and a woman followed him. I called to them gayly. “I fancied you would be here the moment I saw the church!” I said, sliding to the ground.

  “Thank Heaven you are safe!” the Duchess answered, and to my astonishment she flung her arms round my neck and kissed me. “What has happened?” she asked, looking in my eyes, her own full of tears.

  “I think I have stopped them,” I answered, turning suddenly shy, though, boylike, I had been longing a few minutes before to talk of my victory. “They tried to cross, and — —”

  I had not sheathed my sword. Master Bertie caught my wrist, and, lifting the blade, looked at it. “So, so!” he said nodding. “Are you hurt?”

  “Not touched!” I answered. Before more was said he compelled his wife to go back into the porch. The wind blew keenly across the open ground, and we were all wet and shivering. When we had fastened up the horse we followed her. The door of the church was locked, it seemed, and the porch afforded the best shelter to be had. Its upper part was of open woodwork, and freely admitted the wind; but wide eaves projected over these openings, and over the door, so that at least it was dry within. By huddling together on the floor against the windward side we got some protection. I hastily told what had happened.

  “So Clarence is gone!” My lady’s voice as she said the words trembled, but not in sorrow or pity as I judged. Rather in relief. Her dread and hatred of the man were strange and terrible, and so seemed to me then. Afterward, I learned that something had passed between them which made almost natural such feelings on her part, and made natural also a bitter resentment on his. But of that no more. “You are quite sure,” she said — pressing me anxiously for confirmation— “that it was he!”

  “Yes. But I am not sure that he is dead,” I explained.

  “You seem to bear a charmed life yourself,” she said.

  “Hush!” cried her husband quickly. “Do not say that to the lad. It is unlucky. But do you think,” he continued — the porch was in darkness, and we could scarcely make out one another’s faces— “that there is any further chance of pursuit?”

  “Not by that party to-night,” I said grimly. “Nor I think to-morrow.”

  “Good!” he answered. “For I can see nothing but water ahead, and it would be madness to go on by night without a guide. We must stay here until m
orning, whatever the risk.”

  He spoke gloomily — and with reason. Our position was a miserable, almost a desperate one, even on the supposition that pursuit had ceased. We had lost all our baggage, food, wraps. We had no guides, and we were in the midst of a flooded country, with two tender women and a baby, our only shelter the porch of God’s house. Mistress Anne, who was crouching in the darkest corner next the church, seemed to have collapsed entirely. I remembered afterward that I did not once hear her speak that night. The Duchess tried to maintain our spirits and her own; but in the face of cold, damp, and hunger, she could do little. Master Bertie and I took it by turns to keep a kind of watch, but by morning — it was a long night and a bitter one — we were worn out, and slept despite our misery. We should have been surprised and captured without a blow if the enemy had come upon us then.

  I awoke with a start to find the gray light of a raw misty morning falling upon and showing up our wretched group. The Duchess’s head was hidden in her cloak; her husband’s had sunk on his breast; but Mistress Anne — I looked at her and shuddered. Had she sat so all night? Sat staring with that stony face of pain, and those tearless eyes on the moonlight, on the darkness which had been before the dawn, on the cold first rays of morning? Stared on all alike, and seen none? I shuddered and peered at her, alarmed, doubtful, wondering, asking myself what this was that had happened to her. Had fear and cold killed her, or turned her brain? “Anne!” I said timidly. “Anne!”