No Quarter!

His daughters were upstairs, in their private apartment, from which they had never come down. Through the window they had seen their father brought back under guard, as a felon; saw it with indignation, but also fear. Greater became the last, when told they could not hold speech with him, or have access to the room in which he was confined. Denied interview with their own father, in their own house! Inhumanity that augured ill for what was to come after.

What this might be they could neither tell nor guess. They even feared to reflect upon it; trembling at every footstep on the stairs. Though no key had been turned upon them, nor sentry set at their door, they were as much imprisoned as their father. For the Prince’s retinue of servants filled the house, tramping and roaming about everywhere, and bullying the family domestics. It was not safe to go out among them; and the young ladies had locked themselves up, dreading insult, if not absolute outrage. Even Gwenthian dared not trust herself downstairs, and shared their confinement.

What did it all mean? Why such change in the behaviour of the Prince, so late pretending amiability? For his people must have sanction, or they would not be so acting.

The explanation was simple, withal. Shortly after Rupert’s arrival at Hollymead, a courier, who had followed him from Monmouth, brought tidings of another Royalist reverse – Chepstow, with its castle, taken or closely beleaguered. Exasperated by the intelligence, he no longer resisted the wicked proposals of Lunsford, but gave willing assent to them. And now, having thrown off the mask, he had determined on taking the whole Powell family back with him to Bristol. As his prisoner there he could do with the “bit of saucy sweetness” as it might please him; as he had done with many other unfortunate women whom the chances of war had brought within his wanton embrace.

It had been all settled, save some details about the departure from Hollymead, the time, and the return route. These were now being discussed between him and the commanding officer of his escort, as they sate at a side table to which they had temporarily withdrawn, to be out of earshot, of the others.

“Should we remain here for the night, mein Colonel, or make back to Monmouth? We can get there before midnight.”

“That we could, easily enough, your Highness. But why go by Monmouth at all?”

“Why not?”

“There are two reasons against it, Prince. Both good ones.”

“Give them, Sir Thomas.”

“If it be true that Chepstow’s lost to us, there may be a difficulty in our crossing the Wye down there. Or getting over to the Aust passage of the Severn, with such a weak force as attends your Highness.”

“Gott! yes; I perceive that. But what’s your other reason against Monmouth way?”

“A more delicate one. To pass through that town with such a captive train as your Highness will have might give tongue for scandal. The venerable Marquis of Worcester is rather squeamish; besides not being your best friend. You know that, Prince?”

“I do know it, and will some day make him sorry for it, the old Papist hypocrite. But what other route would you have us take?”

“Down through the Forest direct, and across the Severn, either at Newnham or Westbury. There’s a ferry at both places, with horse-boats enough to take us all over in a trip or two. We may reach Berkeley Castle before daylight; where, if it be your Highness’s pleasure to lie up for the day, you could enter Bristol on the following night without all the world being the wiser as to the sort of prisoners we carried in.”

“Egad! your reasons are good. I’m inclined to follow your advice, and return by the route you speak of. Are you well acquainted with it, mein Colonel?”

“Reasonably well, your Highness. But Captain Trevor knows it better than I. He was longer with Sir John Wintour, and is familiar with every crook and turn of the Forest roads in that quarter. There can be no danger of our going astray.”

“But the night’s dark as pitch. So one has just told me.”

“True it is now, your Highness. But there’ll be a moon this side midnight, and that will be time enough to start. We can make Berkeley before morning – prisoners, crossing the Severn, and all delays notwithstanding. Next night your Highness may sleep in your own bed within the walls of Bristol Castle, with a sweet creature to share it – whom I need not designate by name.”

“She shall share it!” rejoined the Royal reprobate, in reckless, but determined tone, his wicked passions fired by the wine he had been drinking. “And we go that way, Colonel. So see that all be ready for the route soon as the moon shows her sweet face. Meanwhile, let us back to our comrades and be merry.”

Saying which he returned to the chair he had vacated at the head of the table, the other along with him; then, grasping a filled goblet, he called out the Cavalier’s orthodox sentiment “The Wenches!” adding, —

“Colonel Lunsford will respond with a song, gentlemen!”

Which the Colonel did; giving that they liked best, with a chorus they could all join in, —

“We’ll drink, drink;And our goblets clink,Quaffing the blood-red wine.The wenches we’ll toast,And the Roundheads we’ll roast,The Croppies and all their kind.”

The coarse refrain, with the ribald jests that followed it, could be heard all over the house, reaching the ears of its imprisoned owner. Even those of his daughters, more distant, did not escape being offended by them. No wonder at both having in their hearts, if not on their lips, the prayer, – “God speed Win upon her errand!”

Chapter Sixty One

A Courageous Wader

The Severn was in flood, its wide valley a sheet of water, which extended miles from either bank, and far up north towards Worcester. Viewed from an eminence, it looked as if the primeval sea which once washed the foots of the Malvern Hills had rolled back over its ancient bed.

The city of Gloucester seemed standing on an island, some of its houses, that lay low, submerged, and only approachable by boats; while the causeways of the roads leading from it were under water, in places to a depth of several feet.

This it was which had hindered Ambrose Powell arriving at Hollymead House many hours earlier than that on which he was taken to it a prisoner. For, soon as receiving news of the re-capture of Monmouth, instinctively apprehending danger to the dear ones so unwisely left alone, he had hurriedly started homeward; to be delayed by the obstructing flood. Nearing home with heart a prey to anxiety, harassed by the thought of his own imprudence; at length reaching it to find his worst fears realised; himself no longer free.

The waters still prevailing in the Severn Valley and around Gloucester, it seemed impossible to enter that city, save by boat. Yet on that same night a pedestrian could have been seen making towards it from the direction of Mitcheldean; one who meant it as the objective point of her journey – for it was a woman.

The great cathedral clock was just tolling nine p.m. as she descended into the lowlands near Highnam, and came to a stop by the edge of the inundated district. It was dark, the moon still below the horizon; but her precursory rays, reflected from fleecy clouds above it, threw a faint light over the aqueous surface, sufficient to make objects distinguishable at a good hundred yards’ distance. Copses that seemed islets, with the tufted heads of pollarded willows rising weirdlike out of the water, were the conspicuous features of the flooded landscape. Rows of the latter marked the boundaries of meadows; but two running parallel, with a narrower list between, indicated the causeway of the road.

The woman had approached this point at a rapid pace; and, though brought to a stand, it was but a momentary pause, without thought of turning back. Her attitude, and the expression upon her features, told of a determination to continue on, and get inside Gloucester if that were possible. In all haste, too; for as the strokes of the great clock-bell came booming over the water, she counted them with evident anxiety, in fear of their tolling ten instead of nine. Even the lesser number seemed scarcely to satisfy her; as if, withal, she might be too late for the business she was bent upon.

She but waited for the final reverberation; then, drawing her skirts knee high, walked boldly into the flood, and onward.

Ankle-deep at the first step, she was soon in water that washed around her garters. Here and there, with a current too, which threatened to sweep her off her feet. But it did not deter her from advancing; and on went she, without stop or show of hesitation; no sign of quailing in her eye.

At knee’s depth, as ere long she was, still enough of her showed above the surface to represent the stature of an ordinary woman. For she was not an ordinary woman, in height or otherwise – being Winny, the cadgeress.

On tramped the courageous wader, on plunged, till the water was up to mid thigh. No more then did her face show fear; nor sign of intention to turn back. She would have gone on, had it come to swimming. For swim she could; many the time having bathed her body in both Severn and Wye. That was not needed now, though very near it. Even over the raised ridge of the causeway the flood was feet deep. But, familiar with the route, having the landmarks in her memory – for it was not her first time to travel that road when submerged – she knew all its turns and bearings; how to take them; took them; and at length having passed the deepest depths, saw before her the Severn’s bridge, with its elevated tête-de-pont; and, beyond, the massive tower of the cathedral, amidst a surrounding of roofs and chimneys.

Her perilous journey was near its end, the toilsome journey nigh over; and she felt happy. For, as through frost some twelve months before, she had approached Bristol with pleasant anticipations, so now was she about to enter Gloucester with the same, and from a similar cause.

Her expectancy was realised sooner than she had hoped for; the result identical to a degree of oddness. For just as upon that night at Bristol, so on this at Gloucester, Rob Wilde chanced to be guard-sergeant of the gate by which she sought admission.

And once again went their great arms around each other; their lips closing in kisses loud and fervent as ever.

“God Almighty, Win!” he exclaimed, still holding her in honest, amorous embrace, “what bet now? Why hast thee comed hither through the flood? Dear girl! ye be’s wet up to the – ”

“No matter how high, Rob,” she said, interrupting, “if ’twor up to the neck, there be good reasons for’t.”

“What reasons?”

“News I ha’ brought frae Ruardean; rayther us ought say Hollymead.”

“Bad news be they? I needn’t axe; I see’t in your face.”

“Bad enough; though nothin’ more than might ha’ been expected after the Cavalières bein’ back at Monnerth, an’ master’s theer. Ye ha’ heerd that, I suppose?”

“Oh, certainly! The news got here day afore yesterday, in the night. But fra Hollymead?”

“A troop o’ ’em there, numberin’ nigh two hundred; horse sodjers in scarlet, wi’ all sorts o’ grand trappins; the Prince Rupert’s they be. Us ha’ come wi’ a message to Sir Richard. So I needn’t tell ye who’t be from.”

“No, you needn’t. I can guess. Then ye maun see him at once?”

“Wi’ not a minute’s delay. Us ha’ got a letter for him; an’ she as sent it sayed the deliverin’ be a thing o’ life an’ death. I knows that myself, Rob.”

“Come along, love! The colonel be in his quarters, I think. He wor by the gate here only a short whiles ago, and gied me orders for reportin’ to him there. Another kiss, Win dear, fore’s we get into company.”

The favour was conceded soon as asked; and, after another hug, with more, than one osculation, the two great figures moved off side by side through the darkness.

Chapter Sixty Two

Their Dear Ones in Danger

As the sergeant conjectured, Colonel Walwyn was in his quarters; Eustace Trevor, his almost constant companion, along with him. The ever-active Governor of Gloucester was absent on another of his many expeditions, and had left Colonel Broughton in chief command of the garrison, Sir Richard commanding its cavalry force, with a separate jurisdiction.

The duties of the day over, with all guards stationed for the night, he, with his young troop captain, having just completed the “Grand Rounds,” had returned to quarters, and taken seat by a brisk wood fire; the night, as already said, being chill.

Hubert was bustling about in attendance upon them; for, though a gaudy trumpeter, he took delight in serving his revered colonel in every possible capacity. There was nothing menial in waiting upon such a master – so thought the faithful henchman.

He had uncorked a bottle of claret, and placed it on the table between them, which they proceeded to discuss as they reviewed the events of the day. The knight was no anchorite, neither the ci-devant gentleman-usher; both accustomed to take their wine in a moderate way. And both habitually cheerful, save when some reverse of arms gave reason for their being otherwise.

Such there was now, or lately had been – that of Monmouth still in their minds. Sir Richard regretted not having been himself charged to keep the place he had been chiefly instrumental in capturing. Had it been so, the enemy would not so easily have retaken it. That he might well think or say, without any self-conceit. For in the most blundering manner had Major Throgmorton, left in temporary command, managed its defence; in truth, making no defence at all, but allowing the Royalists to re-enter almost without striking blow.

The affair was truly farcical, however serious for the Parliament. Its County Committee was at the time in session; decreeing fines and sequestrations against the Monmouthshire “malignants”; when all at once confronted by the very men with whose estates and chattels they were playing at confiscation; these armed, and angrily vociferating – “Surrender! you are our prisoners!”

Never were judicial deliberations brought to a more abrupt ending; never transfer of authority more ludicrously sudden. Though it was aught but a jesting matter to the dispossessed ones, who from a comfortable council-chamber were instantly hurried off to the cells of a dismal jail.

Of course the Cavaliers made much fun over the affair; while reversely their adversaries were chagrined and humiliated by it.

Few grieved over the event in a greater degree than Colonel Walwyn and Captain Eustace Trevor; for they had special reasons.

“I only wish I’d known of that danger when we got Massey’s order to march hither,” observed the former, as they sat sipping their wine.

“What would you have done, Sir Richard?”

“Disobeyed it; and marched our men in opposite direction – to Monmouth.”

“Ah, true! A pity you didn’t. It might have been the saving of the place.”

“No use lamenting the disaster now it’s done. Would that the taking of the town were all you and I, Trevor, have concern about! Unfortunately it isn’t. What madness leaving the girls at Hollymead – absolute insanity?”

“It was. I thought so at the time, as did Vaga.”

“Sabrina too; everybody but Powell himself. He couldn’t be convinced there was any danger; and I still hope there may not be. But who knows what the upshot now? I tremble to think of it.”

“It’s to be regretted, we didn’t more press him to come away with us.”

“Oh! that would have been of no use. I did urge it on him – far as I could becomingly. But he had one of his obstinate, pig-headed fits upon him that day, and would listen to no reason. It’s not pleasant having to speak so of him, whom we both look forward to as our future father-in-law; but when he’s in that frame of mind Heaven and earth wouldn’t move him. Nor the devil frighten him either. You remember how he braved Lunsford, and that precious cousin of yours, when they came to collect the King’s loan. True, he had us, and something besides, at his back. But without that he’d have defied them all the same; ay, had the whole Royalist army been there threatening him with instant death.”

“That I fully believe. Yet one cannot help admiring his independence of spirit – so much of manhood in it, and so rare!”

“Ay, true. But in that case too much recklessness. It has begot danger, and may bring disaster upon all of us – if it hasn’t already.”

The last words, spoken in a grave, almost despondent tone, fell unpleasantly on the ear of Eustace Trevor, already sufficiently apprehensive of the thing hinted at.

“In what way, colonel?” he queried anxiously. “Are you thinking of any special danger?”

“I am, indeed; and to our dear ones.”

“But how? From what – whom?”

“Rather ask ‘from where?’ and I’ll answer ‘Monmouth.’ Now that the Royalists are masters there, almost for certain they’ll be raiding up into the Forest; and likely, too likely, a party pay visit to Hollymead. That, as you know, Trevor, were danger enough to those we have fears for?”

“But now that their father has gone to fetch them away? He should be there long before this.”

“And long before this may be too late. Just what I’m most anxious about – the time of his arrival at Hollymead; for I know he won’t stay there an instant. Poor man! he’s sadly repentant of his imprudent act, and will make all haste to bring them back with him. The fear is of the flood having delayed him too long at starting – my fear.”

“Good Heavens?” exclaimed the young officer; “let us hope not.”

“If Massey were here,” continued the other, a thought striking him, “I’d ask leave to go after him. Indeed, I feel half-inclined to take it, without asking.”

“And why not, Colonel? We could be at Ruardean and back before morning – riding at a pace.”

Sir Richard was silent, seeming to ponder. Only for a few seconds; when, as if resolved, he sprang to his feet, saying, —

“I’ll risk it, whatever the result. And we shall start at once, taking our own fellows along with us. Hubert!”

Quick as the call came the trumpeter from aft ante-room, where he had stayed in waiting. To receive the order, —

“To the men’s quarters, and sound the ‘Assembly’! Lose not a moment!”

And not a moment lost the trumpeter, knowing that when Colonel Walwyn gave an order in such excited strain it meant promptest obedience. Snatching up his trumpet, as he hurried out through the ante-room, he was in the street in an instant hurrying towards the cavalry quarters.

Chapter Sixty Three

An Exciting Epistle

“Trevor!” cried the colonel to his troop captain, now also upon his feet, and sharing his excitement; “send out an orderly to summon Harley and our other officers. Perhaps you had best go yourself. You know where to find them, I suppose?”

“I think I do, colonel.”

“Use all despatch. As we’ve made up our minds to this thing, the sooner we’re in the saddle the better.”

The counsel to make haste was little called for. Eustace Trevor itched to be in the saddle, as ever disciple of Saint Hubert on the first day of foxhunting. But just as he was about to step over the threshold of the outer door, he saw a party approaching evidently with the design to enter. Two individuals they were, a man and woman, still within the dim light of the overshadowing houses. For all, he had no difficulty in recognising them. Colossal stature as theirs was far from common; the pair being Rob Wilde and Winny.

He saw them with some surprise – at least the woman. For he had not expected seeing her there. There she was, though; and, as quick intuition told him, her presence might have some bearing on that he was about to issue forth, for he awaited their coming up.

Soon they stood at the door, face to face with him; the sergeant saluting soldier fashion, while the woman curtseyed.

“You, Winifred!” exclaimed the young officer. “I was not aware of your being in Gloucester.”

“Her han’t been in it more’n ten minutes, captain,” said the sergeant, speaking for her. “I ha’ just lets her in at the gate. Her be wantin’ a word wi’ the colonel.”

“She’ll be welcome to that, I’m sure. But first go in yourself and see.”

This was in accordance with military etiquette, indeed regulations; no stranger admitted to the presence of a commanding officer without being announced, and permission given. Rob himself came not under the rule, and was about to pass inside; when a thought occurring to Captain Trevor, the latter turned upon his heel and preceded him.

“Well, Wilde, what is it?” asked Sir Richard, as they entered the room. Eagerly, too, seeing that the features of the big sergeant wore a portentous expression. “Any trouble with your gate-guard?”

“No, Colonel; nothin’ o’ that.”

“Some news come in?”

“Just so, Sir Richard; an’ not o’ the best neyther.”

“Indeed! What news? Whence?”

“Fra Ruardean, or, to speak more partickler, fra Hollymead House.”

Both colonel and captain were now all ears. No spot on the habitable globe had such interest for them as Hollymead House, and from nowhere was intelligence so eagerly desired.

“Tell it, sergeant!” was the impatient command.

“A party o’ the King’s soldiers be quartered there – cavalry.”

“O God?” exclaimed Eustace Trevor, almost in a groan; the knight also showing grievously affected. “How did you get this news?”

“Win ha’ brought it.”

“Win?”

“Yes, colonel. Her be outside the door – waitin’ permission to speak wi’ you. She ha’ been trusted wi’ a letter from the young ladies.”

“Bring her in – instantly!”

“Singular coincidence, Trevor!” said Sir Richard, as the sergeant passed out. “Already at Hollymead! Just what we’ve been fearing!”

“Indeed, so. And all the more reason for our being there too.”

“I wonder who they are. Lingen’s, think you?”

“Rob says they’re quartered there. That would hardly be Lingen’s – so near his own garrison at Goodrich? More like some of Lord Herbert’s Horse from Monmouth. And I hope it may be they.”

“Ah! true; it might be worse. But we’ll soon hear. The cadgeress can tell, no doubt; or it’ll be in the letter.”

The door, reopening, showed the Forest Amazon outside, Rob conducting her in. They could see that she was wet to the waist, her saturated skirt clinging around limbs of noble outline; while her heaving bosom with the heightened colour of her cheeks, told of a journey but just completed, and made in greatest haste.

“You have a letter for me?” said Sir Richard interrogatively, as she stepped inside the room. “Yes, your honner, fra Hollymead.” She spoke with hand raised to her head, as if adjusting one of the plaits of her hair. Instead, she was searching among them for the concealed epistle. Which, soon found, was handed over to him for whom it was intended.

No surprise to Sir Richard at seeing a thing more like curl-paper than letter. It was not the first time for him to receive such, in a similar way; and, straightening it out under the lamplight, he was soon acquainted with its contents.

So far from having the effect of allaying his excitement they but increased it, and he cried out to the sergeant, as he had to the trumpeter, —

“Quick to the men’s quarters, Wilde, and help getting all ready for the route! Hubert’s there by this time, and will have sounded the ‘Assembly.’ Read that, Trevor! There’s something that concerns you,” and he handed the letter to his troop captain.

The sergeant hurried away, leaving Win to be further questioned by the colonel. And while this was going on the young officer perused the epistle, to be affected by it in a similar fashion. It ran thus: —

“Ill tidings, Richard. Prince Rupert here, with his escort – about two hundred. Has just arrived, and intends staying the night; indeed, till father return home, he says. I hope father will not come home, unless you come with him. I’m sure they mean him harm. That horrid man, Lunsford, is in the Prince’s suit; Reginald Trevor too. Winny will tell you more; I fear to lose time in writing. Dear Richard! come if you can.”

So the body of the epistle, with below a postscript, in a different handwriting, well-known to Eustace Trevor: – “Dearest Eustace! we are in danger, I do believe.” The words were significant; and no form of appeal for rescue could have been more pressing. Nor was such needed; neither any urging of haste upon the men thus admonished.