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<h3 class="chapter">Chapter Forty Two.</h3> <h4 class="event">A Reconnaissance.</h4> Instead of viewing the rural scenery, the two colonels had come there to make a reconnaissance. The town itself, its fortified enceinte, the gates piercing it, and the roads around, were the objects to which their glances were given. And, for a time, all their attention was engrossed by them, neither speaking a word. At length Massey, having made survey of them through the telescope, handed it to the knight, saying,— “So you think there’s a chance of our taking the place?” Sir Richard but ran the glass around hastily. He had been up there before, and more carefully reconnoitred, their chief object being to ascertain the strength of the garrison. “Yes, your Excellency,” he rejoined, “a chance, and something more, if Kyrle prove true; or rather should I say, traitor. And,” he added, with a significant smile, “I think we can trust him to do that.” “As it wouldn’t be the first time for him, no doubt we can. He has twice turned coat already. And’s no doubt itching to give it another shift, if he can but see the way without getting it torn from his back. Marston Moor has had its effect on him, too, I suppose.” “It has, and our affair at Beachley will strengthen it. He’ll want to be back on what he believes the winning side now more than ever. His communication to me, though carefully worded, means that, if anything. But we’ll be better able to judge when our despatch-bearers report themselves at High Meadow House. I think we may look for a letter from him.” It was at High Meadow House their men were encamped; the main body under Massey having just arrived, while Sir Richard, with his troopers in advance, had been there overnight. And that same morning the cadgers, hastily summoned from their home at Ruardean, had been despatched to Monmouth market: Jack, or rather the sister, with secret instructions, and Jinkum with full panniers. “They ought to be back soon now,” added Sir Richard, again raising the glass to his eye, and turning it on the town, his object to see if the market people had all gone away. When he last looked, they were streaming out through the gates, the commercial business of the market being over long ago. And now there were only some stragglers on the outgoing roads, men who had lingered by the ale-houses in gossip, or standing treat to the ever-thirsty soldiery. Just then there came within his field of view a group composed of elements altogether different from the home-returning rustics. “What do you see?” asked Massey, observing the telescope steadied, and the knight looking through it with fixed, earnest gaze. “A party of horse, carrying the lance—most of them.” “Where?” “Just coming out of the northern gate.” “A patrol, perhaps?” “No; something more. There are too many of them for that. Over a hundred have passed out already. And—yes; prisoners with them?” “Let me have a look,” said the Governor, stretching out his hand for the telescope, which, of course, the other surrendered to him. Reluctantly though, as Sir Richard felt more than a common interest in the prisoners so escorted. “You’re right,” said Massey, soon as sighting them. “Prisoners they have. But whither can they be taking them? That’s the road to Ross.” “To Hereford also, your Excellency. The route; are the same as far as Whitchurch.” “Ah, true. Still it’s odd their starting out at such an hour! And why carrying prisoners away to Hereford? Surely Monmouth Castle affords gaol room enough. I hope it’s not so full. If so, all the more reason for our doing what we can to empty it.” “I don’t think they’re for Hereford, either. If I’m not mistaken, I saw something which tells of a different destination. If your Excellency will allow me another look through the telescope, perhaps—” “Oh, by all means, take it!” said the Governor, interrupting, and again handing over the glass. “Yes! just as I supposed they were—Harry Lingen’s Horse!” exclaimed Sir Richard, after viewing them for a second or two. “And those poor fellows, their prisoners, likely enough are my own men—one of them, though I can’t identify him, my unfortunate troop captain, young Trevor. They’re en route neither for Ross nor Hereford, but Goodrich Castle, where Lingen has his headquarters. It’s but a short six miles, which may account for their setting out so late.” “But Trevor’s party was taken at a place near Ruardean—Hollymead House, if I recollect aright.” “True; the house of Master Ambrose Powell. It was there Lingen surprised them, through a scoundrel who turned traitor.” “Then why were they brought to Monmouth at all? Ruardean’s but a step from Goodrich.” “Just so, your Excellency, I was puzzled about that myself up till this morning. Now I know why, having got the information from our cadger friends. It appears that when Lingen made his swoop on Hollymead he was on the way to join Wintour at Beachley, so kept straight on through Monmouth, where he dropped his impedimenta of prisoners. On return he’s now picked them up again, and’s taking them on to his own stronghold.” “That’s it, no doubt,” assented Massey. “But,” he added, with a smile of triumphant satisfaction, “whoever those captives be, pretty sure none of them have been brought up from Beachley. Nor is their escort as large as it might have been had Lingen left Wintour to himself. We gave their ranks a good weeding there—all round.” “Yes, indeed,” rejoined the knight, rather absently, and with the telescope still at his eye. He was endeavouring to make good the identity of the captive party, and assure himself whether it was really what he had conjectured it to be. But he could have little doubt, as he had none about the soldiers forming their escort—Lingen’s Horse to a certainty—a partisan troop, variously armed, but most carrying the lance. And while he still continued gazing at them, they commenced the ascent of the Ley’s pitch, which passes over the col between Little Doward and the Table Mount, the road running through woods all the way. Under these they were soon lost to his sight, and as the last lance with its pennon disappeared below the tops of the trees, he lowered his telescope with a sigh, saying,— “What a pity the river’s between, with a flood on! But for that we might have crossed at Huntsholme, and caught up with them ere they could—” He broke off abruptly at sound of footsteps: the tread of heavy boots, with the chink of spurs, and the louder clank of a steel scabbard striking against them. He making all these formidable noises was Sergeant Rob Wilde, seen ascending the steep pitch, and evidently on some errand that called for haste. Sir Richard, advancing to meet him, saw that he had something in his hand, with a good guess as to what it was. “Jerky Jack ha’ brought this, colonel,” said the sergeant, saluting, as he held out a slip of paper, folded and sealed. “He ha’ just got up fra Monnerth; an’, accordin’ to your command, I took it out o’ his leg.” “You did quite right, sergeant. Was there nothing more in the leg?” “Only some silver, colonel; the difference o’ the money he got for the fowls an’ what he gied for the grocer goods. He stowed it theer, afeerd o’ the King’s sodgers strippin’ him o’t.” “A wise precaution on Jerky’s part,” observed the knight, with a smile. “And called for, no doubt.” Then, returning to where Massey stood awaiting him, he said,— “We shall know now, your Excellency, what Kyrle means doing. This is from him—I recognise the script.” The superscription on the letter was only the initials “R.W.,” Sir Richard’s own, who otherwise knew it was for himself, and while speaking had broken open the seal. Unfolding the sheet, he saw what surprised and at first fretted him—that device borne on his hat and the standard of his troop—the sword-pierced crown. It appeared at the head of the page, in rough pen-and-ink sketch, and might be meant ironically. But no; the writing underneath gave the explanation:— <blockquote> “By the symbol above R.W. will understand that K. abjures the hatred thing called ‘Kingship’ henceforth and for ever. After this night he will never draw sword in such a cause, and this night only to give it a back-handed blow. R.W.’s proposal accepted. Plan of action thus:—M. at once to retire troops from High Meadow, news of which a messenger already warned will bring hither post haste. But good reason must be given for retiring, else K. might have difficulty getting leave to go in pursuit. Withdrawal appearing compulsory, there will be none. H., who commands here, is a conceited ass, ambitious to cut a figure, and will rush into the trap as a rat after cheese. R.W. may show this to M., and himself feel assured that if the sword of his old comrade-in-arms be again employed in the service of the P., it will cut keen enough to make up for past deficiencies, which K. hopes and trusts will be forgiven and forgotten.” </blockquote> No name was appended to the singular epistle nor signature of any kind. It needed none. Sir Richard Walwyn knew the writer to be Robert Kyrle, a lieutenant-colonel in the Royalist army, who at the beginning of the war had drawn sword for the Parliament. In days gone by they had fought side by side in a foreign land,—more recently in their own,—and Kyrle could well call Sir Richard an “old comrade-in-arms.” Now they were in opposite camps; but if that letter could be relied upon as a truthful exponent of the writer’s sentiments, they were likely soon to be in the same again. Already there had been a passage of notes between them, and the knight had now a full comprehension of what his anonymous correspondent meant, knew to whom the various initials referred—in short, understood everything purposed and proposed. “What’s your opinion of it, Colonel Walwyn?” asked the Governor, after hearing the letter read, and receiving some necessary explanations. “Do you think we can trust him?” “I do, your Excellency; feel sure of it now. I know Kyrle better than most men, and something of his motives for going over to the other side. Nothing base or cowardly in them; instead, rather honourable thin otherwise. For, in truth, it was out of affection for his old father, whose property was threatened with wholesale confiscation. Walford, up the river, this side Ross, is their home. It is within cannon range of Goodrich Castle, right under, and Lingen would have been sure to make a ruin of it had Kyrle not gone over to the King. Now that the chances of war are with us again, and he thinks that danger past, his heart bounds back to what it once warmly beat for. I know it did, as he has oft told me, in tent and by camp fire.” “To what?” asked Massey, himself a veteran of the Low Country campaigns, and feeling interest in souvenirs of sentiment. “This?” answered the knight, pointing to the device inside the letter, still in his hand. “I believe he will be true to it now, as he promises; and if we get nothing more by it than his sword, it’s one worth gaining, your Excellency. Than Kyrle I don’t know braver or better soldier.” “Well, Colonel, since you seem so disposed to this thing, and confident of success, I’m willing we should make the attempt. At the worst we can but fail, though, indeed, failure may cost us a good many of our best men. Best they must be to form the forlorn hope.” “If your Excellency permit, I and my Foresters will form that. With my confidence in them, and faith in Kyrle, I have no fear of failure—if the details of our scheme be carried out as designed.” “They shall be, Sir Richard, so far as I can effect it. You may rely upon me for that. Nay, I leave the ordering and arrangement of everything to yourself.” “Thanks, your Excellency. But the sooner we set about it the better. Kyrle, as you see, counsels the withdrawal at once.” “But what about the reasons for doing so? Without that, he tells us—” “I’ve thought of that, too,” interrupted Sir Richard, now all haste. “It’s part of my plan already arranged. But it will take a little time to procure this reason, so that it may appear plausible—the time it will take a man, mounted on a good horse, to gallop to Coleford and back.” “I don’t quite comprehend you, Colonel. For what purpose this galloping to Coleford?” “To get news from Gloucester—telling us it is threatened by Rupert.” The Governor gave a start, as if actually being told it was so. Then, recovering himself, as he saw the smile on Sir Richard’s face, at the same time catching the purport of his dubious words, he smiled, too, admiringly upon the soldier knight, as he rejoined,— “An admirable idea! It will do! But, as you say, Colonel, there must be no time lost. The messenger must be despatched at once. So let us back to High Meadow House.” Saying which, he started off down the hill. Sir Richard was about to follow when his big sergeant, who had been all the while standing near, stepped up to him, and saluting, said,— “There be a woman as wants a word wi’ ye, Colonel.” “A woman! Who, Rob?” “Cadger Jack’s sister.” “Where is she?” “A little ways down the lane. I didn’t like bringin’ she up, fears you or the Governor mightn’t wish bein’ intruded on. Besides, her business be more wi’ yerself, Colonel.” “Well, Wilde,” half jocularly returned the knight, “your discretion seems on a par with your valour. But let us down, and hear what the cadgeress has to say. If it be a question of squaring the market account, you can take that upon yourself. I give you carte blanche to settle scores; and if they’ve brought back groceries, you may distribute them among the men.” “It bean’t nothin’ o’ that Win want to speak ye about?” “What is it, then? You seem, to know.” “There be herself, Colonel. Her can tell you better’n me.” He pointed to the Forest Amazon, who but a short distance below stood by the trunk of a tree, from behind which she had just stepped, Massey having passed without seeing her. “Well, Mistress Winifred,” said the knight, when near enough to commence conversation, “my sergeant tells me you’ve something to say.” “Only a word, your honour; an’ I be’s most feered to speak it, since it ant a pleasant one.” “Out with it, anyhow.” “Him be wounded.” “Who?” “The young officer as wor took at Hollymead—Captain Trevor.” “Ha! Wounded, too! Who told you that?” “’Twor all about Monnerth the day, wheres him be in prison. I tried get a chance to speak wi’ he, but couldn’t, bein’ watched by the sodgers roun’ the Castle.” “Did you hear whether his wound be serious?” “No, Sir Richard; nothin’ more than that it wor from a gunshot, an’ had laid he up. Hope it won’t signify no great deal; but I thought it better you be told o’t fores it reach the young lady at Gloster—so’s yer honour might break it to her a bit easier.” “Very thoughtful of you, Mistress Winifred, and thanks! I’ll endeavour to do that.” He passed on with quickened step and shadowed countenance. Eustace Trevor, whom he had grown to regard as a brother, wounded! This was news to him. And a gunshot wound which had laid him up—that looked grave. All the more reason for taking Monmouth, and soon. But however soon, he had a presentiment, and something more, it would be too late—so far as finding Eustace Trevor there. He felt almost sure that, whether slightly or severely wounded, his troop captain had been taken on to Goodrich. <hr /></div> <div class="page-break"></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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