No Quarter!

“Of course you may. What is it, sir?”

“Leave to appropriate a few of the heron’s feathers.”

“Why, certainly! The falconer will pluck them for you. Van Dorn, pull out some of its feathers, and hand them to this gentleman. I suppose you mean those over the train, Mr Trevor?”

“Yes, they.”

“You hear, Van Dorn.”

Without that the man knew what was wanted; the loose tail coverts so much prized for plumes; and, drawing them out one by one, he bound them into a bunch with a piece of cord whipped round their shanks; then handed them up to the cavalier. After which he went off to attend upon his hawks.

There was a short interregnum of silence as the falconer turned his back on them, and till he was out of earshot. Then the young lady asked, with apparent artlessness, —

“But, Mr Trevor, what do you intend doing with the heron’s feathers?”

“Pluming my hat with them.”

“Why, it’s plumed already! and by far showier ones!”

“Showier they may be; but not prettier, nor so becoming. And certainly not to be esteemed as these; which I shall wear as souvenir of a pleasant time – the pleasantest of my life.”

There was a pleased expression in her eyes as she listened to what he said; still more when she saw what he did. This, to whip the hat from his head, pluck the panache of ostrich feathers from its aigrette and insert those of the heron in their place. Something he did further seemed also to give her gratification, though she artfully concealed it. Reproach on her lips, but delight in her heart, as she saw him tear the displaced plume into shreds, and toss them to the ground at his horse’s feet.

“How wasteful you are, Mr Trevor?” she exclaimed, reprovingly. “Those foreign feathers must have cost a great deal of money. What’s worse, you’ve spoiled the look of your hat! Besides, you forget that those now on it came from a conquered bird?”

“All the more appropriate for a plume to be worn by me.”

“Why so, sir?”

“Because of my being vanquished, too.”

“You vanquished, Mr Trevor! When? where? By whom?” she asked, at the same time mentally interrogating herself. Could he be alluding to that combat in which he received the wound brought with him to Hollymead, the story of which had leaked out, though not told by either combatant. Or, was he hinting at conquest of another kind?

There was an indescribable expression on her countenance as she sat awaiting his answer – keen anxiety, ill-concealed under an air of pretended artlessness.

“Vaga!”

It was not he who pronounced her name; though “Vaga,” with “Powell” adjoined, were the words nearest to his lips. She would have given the world to hear him speak them. But it could not be then. Her sister had called to her, at that moment approaching with Sir Richard. Most ill-timed approach, for it interrupted a dialogue which, allowed to continue, might, and likely would, have ended in declarations of love – confessions full and mutual.

Chapter Fifteen

“Dear Little Mer.”

“Turn and turn, sister,” said Sabrina, as she rode up. “You’ve had sport enough with your great eagles. Suppose we go up to the hill, and give my dear little Mer a cast-off?”

“Dear little Mer” was a merlin, that sate perched on her left wrist, in size to the peregrines as a bantam cock to the biggest of chanticleers. Withal a true falcon, and game as the gamest of them.

Why its mistress proposed changing the scene of their sport was that no larks nor buntings – the merlin’s special quarry – were to be met with by the marsh. Their habitat was higher up on the ridge, where there was a tract bare of trees – part pasture, part fallow.

To her sister’s very reasonable request Vaga did not give the readiest assent. The petted young lady looked, and likely felt, some little vexed at her tête-à-tête with Eustace Trevor having been so abruptly brought to an end. It had promised to make that spot – amid reeds and rushes though it was – hallowed to her, as another on the summit of a certain hill, among hazels and hollies, had been made to her sister. Whatever her thoughts, she showed reluctance to leave the low ground, saying in rejoinder, —

“Oh! certainly, Sab. But won’t you wait till the dogs have finished beating the sedge?”

“If you wish it, of course. But you don’t expect them to find another heron?”

“No; but there may be a widgeon or wild duck. After such an easy victory, I’m sure my pers would like to have another flight. See how they chafe at their hoods and pull upon the jesses! Ah, my beauties! you want to hear the hooha-ha-ha-ha again – that do you.”

“Oh! let them, then,” said the more compliant Sabrina, “if the dogs put up anything worth flying them at; which I doubt their doing. We’ve made too much noise for that.”

The conjecture of the sage sister proved correct. For the marsh, quartered to its remotest corners, yielded neither widgeons nor wild ducks; only moor-hens and water-rails – quarry too contemptible to fly the great falcons at.

“Now,” said Sabrina, “I suppose you’ll consent to the climbing?”

Her motto might have been Excelsior; she seemed always urging an uphill movement.

But there was no longer any objection made to it; and the canines being called out of the sedge, all entered the forest, riders and followers afoot, and commenced winding by a wood-path up the steep acclivity of Ruardean’s ridge.

When upon its crest, which they soon after reached, the grand panorama already spoken of lay spread before their eyes. For they were on the same spot from which the young ladies had viewed it that day when Hector harassed the donkey. Neither of them bestowed a look upon it now; nor did Sabrina even glance at that road winding down from the Wilderness, off which on the former occasion she had been unable to take her eyes. Its interest for her no longer had existence; he who had invested it with such being by her side. Now she but thought of showing off the capabilities of “dear little Mer,” as in fondness she was accustomed to call the diminutive specimen of the falconidae.

Ere long Mer made exhibition of her high strain and training – for the little falcon was also a female – sufficient to prove herself neither tercel nor haggard. First she raked down a lark, then a corn bunting; and at the third cast-off overtook and bound on to a turtle-dove, big as herself. For all she speedily brought it to the earth, there instantly killing it.

Just as she had brought this quarry to ground a cry was heard, which caused interruption of the sport, —

“Soldiers!”

It was the falconer who so exclaimed; for now that they were merlin-flying his services were scarce required, and one of his aids did the whistling and whooping. Left at leisure to look around, his eyes had strayed up the road beyond Drybrook, there to see what had called forth his cry.

Instantly all other eyes went the same way, more than one voice muttering in confirmation, —

“Yes; they’re soldiers.”

This was evident from their uniformity of dress – all alike, or nearly – as also by the glancing of arms and accoutrements. Moreover, they were in military formation, riding in file, “by twos” – for they were on horseback.

At sight of them all thoughts of sport were at an end, and the hawking was instantly discontinued. Mer, lured back to her mistress’s wrist, was once more hooded, and the leash run through the varvels of her jesses; while the falconer and his helps, with the other attendants, gathered into a group preparatory to leaving the field.

Meanwhile, by no accident, but evidently from previous understanding, Sir Richard Walwyn and Eustace Trevor had drawn their horses together, at some distance from the spot occupied by the ladies, the knight saying, —

“It’s Wintour’s troop from Lydney, I take it. What do you think, Master Trevor?”

“The same as yourself. Nay, more, I’m sure of it, now. That’s my cousin Rej at their head, on the grey mare, with the red feathers in his hat. You remember them?”

“I do. You’re right; ’tis he. Somebody beside him, though, who appears to be in command. Don’t you see him turn in his saddle, as though calling back orders?”

“Yes, yes;” was the repetitive rejoinder, Eustace Trevor, despite his late sojourn at Court, still retaining some of the idiomatic forms of Welsh colloquy. “But who are those in the rear?” he added, interrogatively.

His question had reference to a number of men afoot, neither in uniform nor formation, who were seen coming behind the horse troop, pressing close upon its heels. Women among them, too, as could be told by the brighter hues and looser draping of their dresses.

“People from Mitcheldean,” answered Sir Richard, “following the troop out of curiosity, no doubt.”

The knight knew better; knew that, but for himself, and some action he had lately taken, the people spoken of, or at least the majority of them, would not have been there. For, since his arrival at Hollymead, he had made many excursions unaccompanied – save by his henchman, Hubert – to Mitcheldean, Coleford, and other Forest centres, where he had held converse with many people – spoken words of freedom, which had found ready and assenting response. Therefore, as he now gazed at that crowd of civilians coming on after the soldiers, though his glance was one of inquiry, it was not as to who they were who composed it, but to make estimate of their numbers, at the same time comparing it with the strength of the troop.

There was no time left him to arrive at any exactitude. The horsemen were on the way to Hollymead, for sure; and he must needs be there before – long before them.

So the hawking party made no longer stay on Ruardean Hill, but a start and return homeward – so rapid as to seem retreat; the understrappers and other attendants wondering why it was so – all save Hubert.

Chapter Sixteen

Trouble Anticipated

On return for Hollymead, the hawking party did not pass through Ruardean, as it would have been round about. Nevertheless, Sir Richard went that way. At a forking of the forest paths the knight excused himself to the ladies, leaving Eustace Trevor to escort them home; he, with his own servant, turning off towards the village.

Some matter of importance must have influenced him to deviate from the direct route; and that it was pressing might be deduced from the speed to which he put his horse. Soon as parted from the others, he and Hubert made free use of their spurs, going in reckless gallop down the steepest pitches, nor drawing bridle till they had reached Ruardean. A small place then as now, of some two hundred houses, contiguous to a fine old church, and ancient hostelry opposite, the streets all declivities, with some scattered dwellings that radiated off into quaint nooks and by-ways.

The clattering of hoofs had brought faces to every window, and figures into every door; for this had been heard long before the two horsemen made their appearance. And now, as these came to a halt in front of the inn, their horses breathing hard, all eyes were bent upon them with inquiring curiosity.

“Wind your horn, Hubert!” commanded the knight, in an undertone, without waiting for any one to come up to them.

A command which Hubert instantly obeyed by drawing a small cornet from under his doublet, clapping it to his lips, and sounding the “Assembly.” He had been troop-trumpeter in “the army that swore so terribly in Flanders,” and so understood the cavalry calls.

No cavalry, however, answered this one, nor soldiers of any arm; though it was answered by what looked the right material for making soldiers. Before the cornet’s notes had ceased reverberating from the tower of the church, and the walls of the old castle – then in ruins – men could be seen issuing from the doors of the nearer houses, others hastening along the lanes from those more remote, all making for the spot where the horsemen were halted.

In a few seconds nearly twenty had gathered, up and grouped around the horses; the expression on their faces showing that they understood the signal in a general way, but not the reason for its having been sounded to summon them just then. All looked inquiry, one putting it in the form of speech, —

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