The Tavern Knight. Rafael SabatiniЧитать онлайн книгу.
you if you steal so much as a kiss from a wench in passing.”
“Why, true,” laughed Crispin, “the Second Charles hath an over-tender stomach. He will not allow that we are marching through an enemy's country; he insists that England is his kingdom, forgetting that he has yet to conquer it, and—”
“Was it not also his father's kingdom?” broke in the impetuous Hogan. “Yet times are sorely changed since we followed the fortunes of the Martyr. In those days you might help yourself to a capon, a horse, a wench, or any other trifle of the enemy's, without ever a word of censure or a question asked. Why, man, it is but two days since His Majesty had a poor devil hanged at Kendal for laying violent hands upon a pullet. Pox on it, Cris, my gorge rises at the thought! When I saw that wretch strung up, I swore to fall behind at the earliest opportunity, and to-night's affair makes this imperative.”
“And what may your plans be?” asked Crispin.
“War is my trade, not a diversion, as it is with Wilmot and Buckingham and the other pretty gentlemen of our train. And since the King's army is like to yield me no profit, faith, I'll turn me to the Parliament's. If I get out of Penrith with my life, I'll shave my beard and cut my hair to a comely and godly length; don a cuckoldy steeple hat and a black coat, and carry my sword to Cromwell with a line of text.”
Sir Crispin fell to pondering. Noting this, and imagining that he guessed aright the reason:
“I take it, Cris,” he put in, keenly glancing at the other, “that you are much of my mind?”
“Maybe I am,” replied Crispin carelessly.
“Why, then,” cried Hogan, “need we part company?”
There was a sudden eagerness in his tone, born of the admiration in which this rough soldier of fortune held one whom he accounted his better in that same harsh trade. But Galliard answered coldly:
“You forget, Harry.”
“Not so! Surely on Cromwell's side your object—”
“T'sh! I have well considered. My fortunes are bound up with the King's. In his victory alone lies profit for me; not the profit of pillage, Hogan, but the profit of those broad lands that for nigh upon twenty years have been in usurping hands. The profit I look for, Hogan, is my restoration to Castle Marleigh, and of this my only hope lies in the restoration of King Charles. If the King doth not prevail—which God forfend!—why, then, I can but die. I shall have naught left to hope for from life. So you see, good Hogan,” he ended with a regretful smile, “my going with you is not to be dreamed of.”
Still the Irishman urged him, and a good half-hour did he devote to it, but in vain. Realizing at last the futility of his endeavours, he sighed and moved uneasily in his chair, whilst the broad, tanned face was clouded with regret. Crispin saw this, and approaching him, he laid a hand upon his shoulder.
“I had counted upon your help to clear the Ashburns from Castle Marleigh and to aid me in my grim work when the time is ripe. But if you go—”
“Faith, I may aid you yet. Who shall say?” Then of a sudden there crept into the voice of this hardened pike-trader a note of soft concern. “Think you there be danger to yourself in remaining?” he inquired.
“Danger? To me?” echoed Crispin.
“Aye—for having harboured me. That whelp of Montgomery's Foot suspects you.”
“Suspects? Am I a man of straw to be overset by a breath of suspicion?”
“There is your lieutenant, Kenneth Stewart.”
“Who has been a party to your escape, and whose only course is therefore silence, lest he set a noose about his own neck. Come, Harry,” he added, briskly, changing his manner, “the night wears on, and we have your safety to think of.”
Hogan rose with a sigh.
“Give me a horse,” said he, “and by God's grace tomorrow shall find me in Cromwell's camp. Heaven prosper and reward you, Cris.”
“We must find you clothes more fitting than these—a coat more staid and better attuned to the Puritan part you are to play.”
“Where have you such a coat?”
“My lieutenant has. He affects the godly black, from a habit taken in that Presbyterian Scotland of his.”
“But I am twice his bulk!”
“Better a tight coat to your back than a tight rope to your neck, Harry. Wait.”
Taking a taper, he left the room, to return a moment later with the coat that Kenneth had worn that day, and which he had abstracted from the sleeping lad's chamber.
“Off with your doublet,” he commanded, and as he spoke he set himself to empty the pocket of Kenneth's garment; a handkerchief and a few papers he found in them, and these he tossed carelessly on the bed. Next he assisted the Irishman to struggle into the stolen coat.
“May the Lord forgive my sins,” groaned Hogan, as he felt the cloth straining upon his back and cramping his limbs. “May He forgive me, and see me safely out of Penrith and into Cromwell's camp, and never again will I resent the resentment of a clown whose sweetheart I have made too free with.”
“Pluck that feather from your hat,” said Crispin.
Hogan obeyed him with a sigh.
“Truly it is written in Scripture that man in his time plays many parts. Who would have thought to see Harry Hogan playing the Puritan?”
“Unless you improve your acquaintance with Scripture you are not like to play it long,” laughed Crispin, as he surveyed him. “There, man, you'll do well enough. Your coat is somewhat tight in the back, somewhat short in the skirt; but neither so tight nor so short but that it may be preferred to a winding-sheet, and that is the alternative, Harry.”
Hogan replied by roundly cursing the coat and his own lucklessness. That done—and in no measured terms—he pronounced himself ready to set out, whereupon Crispin led the way below once more, and out into a hut that did service as a stable.
By the light of a lanthorn he saddled one of the two nags that stood there, and led it into the yard. Opening the door that abutted on to a field beyond, he bade Hogan mount. He held his stirrup for him, and cutting short the Irishman's voluble expressions of gratitude, he gave him “God speed,” and urged him to use all dispatch in setting as great a distance as possible betwixt himself and Penrith before the dawn.
CHAPTER III. THE LETTER
It was with a countenance sadly dejected that Crispin returned to his chamber and sate himself wearily upon the bed. With elbows on his knees and chin in his palms he stared straight before him, the usual steely brightness of his grey eyes dulled by the despondency that sat upon his face and drew deep furrows down his fine brow.
With a sigh he rose at last and idly fingered the papers he had taken from the pocket of Kenneth's coat. As he did so his glance was arrested by the signature at the foot of one. “Gregory Ashburn” was the name he read.
Ashen grew his cheeks as his eyes fastened upon that name, whilst the hand, to which no peril ever brought a tremor, shook now like an aspen. Feverishly he spread the letter on his knee, and with a glance, from dull that it had been, grown of a sudden fierce and cruel, he read the contents.
DEAR KENNETH,
Again I write in the hope that I may prevail upon you to quit Scotland and your attachment to a king, whose fortunes prosper not, nor can prosper. Cynthia is pining, and if you tarry longer from Castle Marleigh she must perforce think you but a laggard lover. Than this I have no more powerful