No Quarter!

“Not one of them! Never, so long as I wear a sword. You shall eat yours first?” and he whipped out his rapier.

Though journeying side by side, they were quite strangers to one another, an accident having brought them together upon the road, both going in the same direction. It was up the steep declivity leading from the town of Mitcheldean into the Forest, near the point where now stands a mansion called “The Wilderness.” Nor were they altogether alone, two other horsemen, their respective body servants, riding at a little distance behind. It was after surmounting the slope, and having got upon level ground, that their conflict of words reached the climax described, likely to end in one of blows. For to this the fiery youth seemed determined on pushing it.

Not so the other. On the contrary, he still sat composedly in his saddle, no sign of drawing sword, exhibiting a sang froid curiously in contrast with the warmth he had shown in the wordy disputation. It surely could not be cowardice? If so, it must be of the most craven kind, after that demand for withdrawal of the insulting words.

And as such the Cavalier conceived, or misconceived, it, crying out, —

“Draw, caitiff! Defend yourself, if you don’t want me to kill you in cold blood!”

“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the other, lightly and satirically. “It’s just because I don’t want to kill you in cold blood that I hesitate baring my blade.”

“A subterfuge – a lie!” shouted the youth, stung to madness by the implied taunt of his inferiority. “Do your best and worst. Draw, sirrah, or I’ll run you through. Draw, I say!”

“Oh, don’t be in such a hurry. If I must I must, and, to oblige you, will, though it dislikes me to do murder – all the more that you’ve a spark of spirit. But – ”

“Do it if you can,” interrupted the Cavalier, unheeding the compliment. “I’ve no fear of your murdering me. Maybe the boot will be on the other leg.”

Again that strange expression came over the face of the older man, half-admiration, half-compassion, with a scarce discernible element of anger in it. Even yet he appeared reluctant to draw his sword, and only did so when the opprobrious epithet Lâche– for the Cavaliers spoke a smattering of French – was flung into his teeth by his now furious antagonist. At this, unsheathing, he called out, —

“Your blood be on your own head. To guard!”

“For God and the King!” cried the challenger, as he tightened grasp on hilt and rein, setting himself firmly in the saddle.

“For God and the People!” followed the response antagonistic.

A prick of the spur by both, a bound forward, and their blades crossed with a clash, their horses shoulder to shoulder. But on the instant of engaging, that of the Cavalier, frayed by the clink of the steel and its flash in the dazzling sunlight, reared up, pivoting round to the right. This brought his rider left side to his antagonist, giving the latter an advantage: and so decided, it seemed as though he could bring the affair to an end at the moment of commencement. For his own better-trained steed had stood ground, and wanted only another touch of the spur to carry him close enough for commanding the bridle arm of his adversary, and all under it, when with a lunge he might thrust him through. Surely he could have done this! Yet neither spur nor sword were so exerted. Instead, he sat quietly in his saddle, as if waiting for his adversary to recover himself! Which the latter soon did, wheeling short round, and again furiously engaging; by a second misconception, unaware of the mercy shown him. This time as they came to the “engage” the Cavalier’s horse behaved better, standing ground till several thrusts and parades were exchanged between them. Clearly the silk-clad youth was no novice at fencing, but as clearly the other was a master of it, and equally accomplished as a horseman; his horse, too, so disciplined as to give him little bother with the bridle. A spectator, if a connoisseur in the art d’escrime, could have told how the combat would end – must end – unless some accident favoured the younger combatant. As it was, even the Fates seemed against him, his horse again rearing en pirouette, and to the wrong side, placing him once more at the mercy of his antagonist. And again the latter scorned, or declined, taking advantage of it!

When the angry youth for the third time confronted him, it was with less fury in his look, and a lowered confidence in his skill. For now he not only knew his own inferiority as a swordsman, but was troubled with an indistinct perception of the other’s generosity. Not clear enough, however, to restrain him from another trial; and their swords came together in a third crossing.

This time the play was short, almost as at the first. Having engaged the Cavalier’s blade in carte, and bound it, the self-proclaimed Republican with a quick flanconnade plunged the point of his own straight for his adversary’s wrist. Like the protruded tongue of a serpent, it went glistening into the white gauntlet, which instantly showed a spot of red, with blood spurting out; while the rapier of the Cavalier, struck from his grasp, flew off, and fell with a ring upon the road.

Chapter Two

Foes Become Friends

The young Cavalier was now altogether at the mercy of his older, and as proved, abler antagonist; knew the latter could take his life, and had the right, as well as good reason, from the great provocation given him in that shower of insulting epithets – the latest of them “Lâche!” For all, he quailed not, neither made attempt to elude the next thrust of the victorious sword. Instead, stood his ground, crying out, —

“You have conquered! You can kill me!”

“Kill you?” rejoined the victor, with the same light laugh as before. “That’s just what I’ve been endeavouring not to do. But it has cost me an effort – all my skill. Had you been an ordinary swordsman I’d have disarmed you at the first pass after engaging. I’ve done it with others, half a dozen or more. With you, ’twas just as much as I was able, without absolutely taking your life – a thing far from my thoughts, and as far from my wishes. And now that all’s over, and we’ve neither of us murdered the other, am I to say ‘Surrender’?”

He still spoke laughingly, but without the slightest tone of satire, or show of exultation.

“You can command it,” promptly responded the vanquished youth, now doubly vanquished. “I cry ‘Quarter’ – crave it, if you like.”

It was no fear of death made him thus humbly submit, but a sudden revulsion, an outburst of gratitude, to a conqueror alike merciful and generous.

Ere this their attendants had got upon the ground, seeming undecided whether to pitch in with their masters, or cross swords on their own account. Both had drawn them, and waited but word or sign, scowling savagely at each other. Had it come to blows between the men, the result, in all probability, would have been as with their masters; the Cavalier’s lightweight varlet looking anything but a match for the stout-bodied, veteranlike individual who was henchman to his antagonist. As it was, they had not resolved themselves till the combat came to an end. Then hearing the word “quarter,” and seeing signs of amity restored, they slipped their blades back into the scabbards, and sate awaiting orders.

Only one of them received any just then – he the heavy one.

“Dismount, Hubert,” commanded his master, “and return his weapon to this young gentleman, who, as you can testify, well deserves to wear it. And now, sir,” he continued to the young gentleman himself, “along with your sword let me offer you some apologies, which are owing. I admit my words were rather rough, and call for qualification, or, to speak more correctly, explanation. When I said, that the man who is not a Republican must be deficient either in head or heart, I meant one who has reached the years of discretion, and seen something of the world – as, for instance, myself. At your age I too was a believer in kings – even the doctrine of Divine Right – brought up to it. Possibly, when you hear my name you’ll admit that.”

“You will give me your name?” asked the other, eagerly. “I wish it, that I may know to whom I am beholden for so much generosity.”

“Very generous on your part to say say I am Sir Richard Walwyn.”

“Ah! A relative of the Scudamores, are you not?”

“A distant relative. But I’ve not seen any of them lately, having just come back from the Low Countries, where I’ve been fighting a bit. In better practice from that, with my hand still in, which may account for my having got the better of you,” and he again laughed lightly.

The young Cavalier protested against the generous admission, and then went on to say he knew the Scudamores well – especially Lord Scudamore, of Holme Lacey.

“I’ve often met his lordship at the Palace,” was the concluding remark.

“At what palace, pray?” inquired Sir Richard.

“Oh! Whitehall. I did not think of specifying.”

“Which proves that you yourself come from it? One of the King’s people, I take it; or in the Queen’s service, more like?”

“I was, but not now. I’ve been at Court for the last few months in the capacity of gentleman-usher.”

“And now? But I crave pardon. It is rude of me to cross-question you thus.”

“Not at all, Sir Richard. You have every right. After being so frank with me, I owe you equal frankness. I’ve given up the appointment I held at Court, and am now on my way home – to my father’s house in Monmouthshire.”

“Your father is – ?”

“Sir William Trevor.”

“Ah! now I can understand why your blood boiled up at my strenuous defence of the Parliament – the son of Sir William Trevor. But we won’t enter upon politics again. After blows, words are inadmissible, as ungracious. Your father’s house is near Abergavenny, if I remember rightly?”

“It is.”

“That’s good twenty-seven miles from here. You don’t purpose going on there to-night?”

“No; I intend putting up for the night at Monmouth.”

“Well, that’s within the possibilities; but not with daylight, unless you press your horse hard – and he looks rather jaded.”

“No wonder. I’ve ridden him all the way from Witney, in Oxfordshire, since six this morning.”

“He must be good stuff to stand it, and show the spirit he did just now. But for all he seems rather badly done up – another reason for my having got the better of you.”

At this both smiled, the young Cavalier, as before, refusing to accept the complimentary acknowledgment.

“A pity,” ran on Sir Richard, “to press the poor animal farther to night – that is, so far as Monmouth. It’s all of ten miles yet, and the road difficult – pitches up and down. You should rest him nearer, by way of reward for his noble performance of the day.”

“Indeed, I was thinking of it; had half made up my mind to sleep at Coleford.”

“Ah! you mus’n’t stop at Coleford, much less sleep there.”

“And why not?”

“The Coleford people are mad angry with the King, as are most others in the Forest. No wonder, from the way Sir John Wintour has been behaving to them since he got the monopoly grant of what his Majesty had no right to give – rights that are theirs. Their blood’s up about it, and just now to appear in the streets of Coleford dressed as you are, cavalier and courtier fashion, might be attended with danger.”

“I’ll risk – defy it!”

“Bravely spoken, and I’ve no doubt you’d bravely do both. But there’s no need for your doing one or the other.”

“If you describe these Coleford fellows aright, how can I help it, Sir Richard? My road passes through their town.”

“True, but there’s a way you may avoid it.”

“Oh! I’m not going to skulk round, taking bypaths, like a thief or deer-stealer. I’ll give them a fight first.”

“And that fight might be your last – likely would, Master Trevor. But no. You’ve fought your way into the Forest so gallantly, it behoves him you all but conquered to see you safe out of it. To do which, however, I must ask you to give up all thoughts of sleeping either at Monmouth or Coleford, and be my guest for the night.”

“But where, Sir Richard? I did not know that you had a house in the Forest.”

“Nor have I. But one of my friends has; and I think I can promise you fair hospitality in it – by proxy. Besides, that little hole I’ve made in your hand – sorry at having made it – needs looking to without delay, and my friend has some skill as a surgeon. I could offer some other inducements that might help in deciding you – as, for instance, a pair of pretty faces to see. But coming from the Court of Queen Henriette, with her galaxy of grand dames, perhaps you’ve had a surfeit of that sort of thing.”

The young courtier shifted uneasily in his saddle, a slight blush coming over his cheeks, as though the words rather gave him pain.

“If not,” continued Sir Richard, without heeding these indices of emotion, “I can promise to show you something rare in the way of feminine beauty. For that I’ll back Sabrina and Vaga against all your maids of honour and court ladies – the Queen included – and win with either.”

“Sabrina! Vaga! Singular names! May I ask who the ladies are?”

“You may do more – make their acquaintance, if you consent to my proposal. You will?”

“Sir Richard, your kindness overpowers me. I am at your service every way.”

“Thanks! Let us on, then, without delay. We’ve yet full five miles of road before us, ere we can reach the cage that holds this pair of pretty birds. Allons!”

At which he gave his horse the spur, Trevor doing the same; and once more the two rode side by side; but friendly now – even to affection.

Chapter Three

Beautiful Forest Birds

In all England’s territory there is no district more interesting than the Forest of Dean. Historically it figures in our earliest annals, as borderland and bulwark of the ancient Silures, who, with Caractacus at their head, held the country around, defending it on many a hard-fought field against the legionaries of Ostorius Scapula. Centuries after, it again became the scene of sanguinary strife between the descendants of these same Silures – then better known as Britons – and the Saxon invaders; and still farther down the stream of time another invasion wasted it – Norman and Saxon arrayed on the same side against Welsh – still the same warlike stock, the sons of Siluria. This conflict against odds – commencing with the Norman William, and continued, or renewed, down through the days made illustrious by the gallant Llewellyn – only came to an end with those of the equally gallant Glendower, when the fires of Welsh independence, now and then blazing up intermittently, were finally and for ever trodden out.

Many a grand historic name is associated with this same Forest of Dean – famed warriors and famous or infamous kings. The Conqueror himself was hunting in it when the news reached him of the rising in Northumberland, and he swore “By the splendour of God, he would lay that land waste by fire and sword!” – a cruel oath, as cruelly kept. In its dark recesses the wretched Edward the Second endeavoured to conceal himself, but in vain – dragged thence to imprisonment in the dungeons of Berkeley Castle, there to die. And within its boundaries was born that monarch of most romantic fame, Harry of Monmouth, hero of Agincourt.

And the day was approaching – had, in fact, come – when other names that brighten the page of England’s history were to fling their halo of illumination over the Forest of Dean – those of the chivalrous Waller, the brave but modest Massey, Essex, Fairfax, and greatest, most glorious of all, that of Cromwell himself. It was to be darkened too, as by the shadow of death – ay, death itself – through many a raid of marauding Cavaliers, with the ruffian Rupert at their head.

Dropping history, and returning to its interest otherwise, the Forest of Dean claims attention from peculiarities of many kinds. Geologically regarded, it is an outlier of the carboniferous system of South Wales, from which it is separated by a breadth of the Devonian that has been denuded between – so widely separated as to have similitude to an island in the far-off ocean. An elevated island, too, rising above the “Old Red,” through successive strata of shales, mountain limestone, and millstone grit, to nearly a thousand feet higher than the general level of the surrounding terrain. Towards this, on every side, and all round for miles and tens of miles, it presents a façade not actually precipitous, but so steep and difficult of ascent as to make horses breathe hard climbing it; while in loaded cart or wagon, teams have to be doubled. Just such a “pitch” was that on whose top the bitter war of words between Eustace Trevor and Sir Richard Walwyn had come to blows.

But, though thus high in air, the Forest of Dean does not possess the usual characteristics of what are termed plateaux, or elevated tablelands. As a rule these show a level surface, or with but gentle undulations, while that of the Forest is everywhere intersected by deep valleys and ravines.

A very interesting geological fact is offered in the surface formation of this singular tract of country, its interior area being in most places much lower than the rim around it. The peculiarity is due to the hard carboniferous limestone, which forms its periphery, having better resisted denudation than the softer matrix of the coal measures embraced by it. The disintegrating rains, and the streams, often torrents, their resulting sequence, have here and there cut channels of escape outward – some running west into the Wye, some eastward to espouse the Severn.

Very different is the Forest of Dean now from what it was in those days of which this tale treats – territorially more restricted, both in its boundaries and the area once bearing its name. Then it extended over the whole triangular space between the two great rivers, from the towns of Ross and Gloucester down to their union in the wide sea-like estuary of the Severn. Changed, too, in the character of its scenery. Now, here and there, a tall chimney may be seen soaring up out of its greenery of trees, and vomiting forth volumes of murky smoke, in striking disagreeable contrast with their verdure. Then there was nothing of this kind; – at least nothing to jar upon the mind, or mar the harmony of nature. Then, too, it was a real forest of grand old trees, with a thick tangle of underwood, luxuriant and shady. For the Court favourite, Sir John Wintour, had not yet wasted it with his five hundred woodcutters, all chopping and hacking away at the same time. It was only after the Restoration he did that; the robber’s monopoly granted him by the “Martyr King” having been re-bestowed by the “Merry Monarch.”

There were towns in the Forest then, notwithstanding – some of them busy centres as now; but the majority peaceful villages or hamlets; country houses, too, some of pretentious style – mansions, and castles. A few of these yet exist, if in ruins; others known only by record; and still others totally gone out of history – lost even to legend.

The Forest roads were then but bridle paths, or trackways for the pack-horse; no fencing on either side; the narrow list of trodden ground running centrally between wide borderings of grass-grown sward; so that the traveller, if a horseman, had the choice of soft turf for the hoofs of his roadster. Only on the main routes between the larger towns, and those going outward, was there much traffic. The bye-roads had all the character of green lanes, narrow, but now and then debouching into glades, and openings of larger area, where the small Forest sheep – progeny of the Welsh mountaineers – browsed upon pasture, spare and close-cropped, in the companionship of donkeys, and perchance a deer, or it might be a dozen, moving among them in amiable association. The sheep and the donkeys are there still, but the deer, alas! are gone. Many birds that built their nests in the Forest trees, or soared above, are there no more. The eagle makes not now its eyrie in the Coldwell Rocks or soars over Symonds’ Yat; even the osprey is but rarely seen pursuing its finny prey in the lower waters of either Wye or Severn. Still, the falconidae are to this day represented in the Forest district by numerous species, by the kite and kestrel; the buzzard, Common, Rough-legged, and Honey; by the goshawk and sparrow-hawk; the hobby and harriers; and if last, not least, in estimation, the graceful diminutive merlin.

Birds of bright feathers, too, still flit through the Forest’s trees; the noisy jay, the gaudy, green woodpecker, and the two spotted species; with the kingfisher of cerulean hue; while its glades are gladdened by the sweet song of the thrush, the bolder lay of the blackbird; in springtide, the matchless melody of the nightingale – the joyous twittering of linnets and finches, mingling with the softer notes of the cushat and turtle-dove.

On that calm summer evening, when the clinking of swords on Mitcheldean-hill frightened the Forest birds, for a time stilling their voices, on another hill, some three miles distant from the scene of strife, the sweet songsters were being disturbed by intrusion upon their wild-wood domain. Not much disturbed, however, nor could the disturbers be justly characterised as intruders. Even the birds themselves might have been glad to see, and welcome among them, things of brightness and beauty far beyond their own. Women they were, or rather girls, both being under age – for there were but two of them. Sisters, moreover, though there was scarce a trait of resemblance to betray the relationship, either in features or complexion. She who seemed the elder was dark as a gipsy, the other a clear blonde, with hair showering over her shoulders, of hue as the beams of the sinking sun that shimmered upon it. For all, both were alike beautiful; in a different way, but unquestionably beautiful. And that they were sisters could be learnt by listening to their conversation: their names, also, as they addressed one another – that of the older, Sabrina; the younger, Vaga.

They could not be other than the pair of pretty birds spoken of by Sir Richard Walwyn; and, verily, he had not overrated them.

Chapter Four

Out for a Walk

Unlike in other respects, the sisters were unequal in height – the elder being the taller. With some difference in their dress, too, though both wore the ordinary outdoor costume of the day. It was rather graceful than splendid, for the hideous farthingale of the Elizabethan era was then going out of fashion, and their gowns, close-fitting in body and sleeves, displayed the outlines of figures that were perfection. Theirs were not charms that needed heightening by any adornment of dress. However plainly attired, there was in their air and carriage that grace which distinguishes the gentlewoman. Still, the younger was not without affectation of ornament. Her French hood of bright-coloured silk, looped under the chin, was so coifed as to show in a coquettish way her wealth of radiant hair, and beneath the gorget ruff gleamed a necklet of gold, with rings in her ears. There was embroidery, also, on the bodice and sleeves of her gown – doubtless the work of her own fair fingers. In those days ladies, even the grandest dames, were not above using the needle.

Sabrina’s hood, of a more sombre hue, was quite as becoming, and more suitable to her darker complexion. Her general attire, too, was appropriate to her character, which was of the staid, sober kind. Both wore strong, thick-soled shoes – being out for a walk – but neither these nor home-knitted stockings, which their short skirts permitted view of, could hinder the eye from beholding feet small and finely-shaped, with high instep and elegant tournure of ankles.

Good walkers they were, as could be told by the way they stepped along the Forest road; for they were on one. It was that which ran from Ruardean to Drybrook, and their faces were set in the direction of the latter. Between the two towns a high ridge is interposed, and this they were ascending from the Ruardean side. Before they had reached its summit, Vaga, coming abruptly to a stop, said: —

“Don’t you think we’ve walked far enough?”

“Why? Are you tired?”

“No – not that. But it occurs to me we may be wandering too far from home.”

That Sabrina was not wandering might have been told by her step, straightforward, as also her earnest glances, interrogating the road ahead at every turning. As these had been somewhat surreptitiously, though not timidly, given, the other had hitherto failed to notice them. Indeed, Vaga was not all the while by her side, nor keeping step with her. A huge dog of the Old English mastiff breed more occupied her attention; the animal every now and then making a rush at the browsing sheep, and sending them helter-skelter among the trees, his young mistress – for the dog was hers – clapping her hands with delight, and crying him on regardless of the mischief. It was only when no more of the little Welsh muttons were to be seen along the road that she joined her sister, and put in that plea for turning back.