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XII
A USE FOR A PRISONER

“Sir,” said Brilliana, “if you give me your parole you shall have the freedom of Harby.”

Evander made her a ceremonious bow.

“Lady, you seem to me to be the only true gentleman on your side of this quarrel, so I will give you my word and my sword.”

Holding his sword by the blade, he extended it across the table to Brilliana, whose hand caught its hilt with the firm grasp of one to whom the manage of arms was not unfamiliar. As she stepped back with her trophy Evander pushed the table aside to afford him passage from his alcove, and, saluting the lady, took his former place between his warders. Brilliana returned his salutation with a murmured “It is well.” Rufus, disengaging himself from the knot of discomfited Cavaliers, moved towards her and addressed her with faintly restrained impatience.

“In Heaven’s name,” he begged, “set this Cantwell on one side if you tender him so precious. I have private news for you.”

Brilliana’s face wore something of a frown for her presuming friend. “Indeed!” she answered, coldly. Then turning towards Halfman she tendered to him Evander’s sword, which he hastened to take from her, kneeling as he did so.

“Captain Cloud is in your care,” she said. “Pray you, withdraw your prisoner a little.”

Halfman rose, bearing Evander’s sword, and went to Evander.

“Will you come this way?” he bade his captive, courteously enough. If Brilliana chose to trust a Roundhead’s word, her will was Halfman’s law. Evander again saluted Brilliana and followed Halfman to the farther part of the hall. Here in a window-seat, out of ear-shot of the other’s speech, he seated himself to commune with his melancholy reflections, while Halfman, after stationing Thoroughgood at a little distance as a nominal guard upon the prisoner, dismissed Garlinge and Clupp from the room and rejoined the Cavaliers. Brilliana, who had still been standing with Sir Rufus, now addressed the others.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “you must need sustenance after this morning’s work. You will find such poor cheer as Harby can offer in the banqueting-hall. Captain Halfman, will you play the host for me?”

The Cavaliers, who were, indeed, sharp-set and ever-ready trenchermen, welcomed the proposal each after his own fashion.

“Indeed,” averred the Lord Fawley, “I would say good-day to a pasty.” “Ay,” assented Radlett, “well met, beef or mutton.” Ingrow euphemized, “I shall be well content with bread and cheese and dreams,” as he glanced admiration at Brilliana. Bardon grunted, “I would sell all my dreams for a slice of cold boar’s head.”

Halfman addressed them in the character of Father Capulet. “We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.” He turned towards the doors of the banqueting-room with the famished gentlemen at his heels; then, noticing that Sir Rufus remained with Brilliana, he stopped and questioned him. “You, sir, will you not eat?”

Rufus answered him with an impatience that was almost anger. “No, no,” he said; “I have no hunger. Stay your stomachs swiftly, friends.”

He turned again to Brilliana, and stood opposite to her in silence till Halfman and the Cavaliers had quitted the hall. Then Brilliana spoke.

“Well, good news or bad?”

“Bad,” Rufus answered. “Your cousin Randolph is a captive.”

Brilliana gave a little cry of regret.

“Bad news, indeed! How did it chance?”

“In the battle,” Rufus answered. “The King’s standard-bearer was slain and the King’s flag fell into the rebel hands.”

Brilliana clasped her hands with a sigh, and would have spoken, but Rufus stayed her, hurrying on with his tale.

“That could not be endured, dear lady. So in the dusk Randolph and I put orange scarfs about us that we might be taken for rogues of Essex’s regiment, and so, unchallenged, slipped into the enemy’s camp. Dear fortune led me to the tent of Lord Essex, and there I found his secretary sitting and gaping at the precious emblem. I snatched it from his fingers and made good my escape, gaining great praise from his Majesty when I laid the sacred silk at his feet.”

Brilliana’s eyes swam with adoration. “Oh, my gallant friend!” she cried, and held out her hands to him. He caught them both and kissed them, whereat she instantly withdrew them and moved a little away. He followed her, speaking low, passionately.

“Your words mean more than the King’s words to me. You know that.”

Brilliana did not look vastly displeased at this wild speech, but she forced a tiny frown and set her finger to her lips.

“Hush!” she said. “What of Randolph?”

“Less fortunate than I,” Rufus resumed, in calmer tones, “he ran into the arms of a burly Parliament man, that Cambridge Crophead Mr. Cromwell, who made him prisoner.”

“Truly,” said Brilliana, thoughtfully, “it is hard luck for him just after his first battle. But ’twill be soon mended. They will exchange him.”

Even as she spoke she seemed surprised at the gloomy look that reigned on Rufus’s face. His tone was as gloomy as his face as he said, “He was wearing the orange scarf of Essex.”

“What then?” Brilliana questioned, still surprised; then, as knowledge flashed upon her, she cried, quickly, “Ah, they will say that he was a spy.”

“Ay,” Rufus answered, hotly, “the King’s spy, God’s spy upon enemies of God and King, but still a spy in their eyes.”

“But what is to be done?” Brilliana gasped.

“I would that I knew,” Rufus answered. “His Majesty has interceded for him and has gained him some days of grace. It is certain that my Lord Essex, if he had his own way, would yield him. But he has not his own way, for this stubborn Cromwell fellow clings to his prisoner.”

“Why is he so stubborn?” Brilliana asked. Rufus smiled sourly.

“Partly because, like all new-made soldiers, he is punctilious of the rules of war. Partly because he hopes to turn his capture to some account. Poor Randolph had upon him a letter in cipher from the King to a certain lord. Randolph may buy his life with the key to the cipher.”

“He will never do that,” Brilliana said, in proud confidence of the courage of her house. She was silent for a moment; then she gave a little cry of joy. “I think I can save him,” she exclaimed. Rufus stared at her as if she had lost her wits.

“Why, what can you do?” he asked, astonished. Brilliana answered with a glance of profound wisdom. “I think I know a way,” and she nodded her head sagely. Then she turned and moved a little space across the hall in the direction of that window-seat where Evander sat ensconced. When she had advanced two or three paces she called to him:

“Captain Cloud, pray favor me with your company for a few moments of speech.”

Evander’s consciousness swam to the surface of a pool of gloomy thought at her summons. He rose on the instant and came down the hall towards her.

“I am at your service, lady,” he said. Brilliana watched him closely as she questioned.

“You say you are a friend of Mr. Cromwell?”

Evander seemed surprised at the interrogation, but he answered, simply, “I am so favored.”

“Does he cherish you in affection?” Brilliana pursued, still watching him closely.

“He loved my father,” said Evander. “If I dared to think it I should say he loved me, too. Truly, he has shown me much regard.”

Brilliana struck her palms sharply together with the air of one who has solved a difficult problem.

“Your Mr. Cromwell has taken prisoner a cousin of mine whom he threatens to kill as a spy. We will exchange you against Mr. Cromwell’s prisoner.”

Evander looked steadily back at her with a hint of mild amusement at the corners of his mouth.

“Colonel Cromwell will never exchange a spy,” he responded, decisively.

Rufus, who was listening to the conference, nodded his head in gloomy assent. “That is like enough,” he agreed. Brilliana stamped a foot and her eyes snapped vexation.

“We shall see,” she said, sharply. She turned away from the two men and moved to a small table against the wall that carried writing materials. Seating herself thereat, she took up a goose-quill and began to write rapidly on a large sheet of paper. When she had finished she looked round, and beckoned Rufus to her side that he might hear what she had written. She read it aloud, with her eyes fixed on Evander’s impassive face.

“To Colonel Cromwell, serving with my Lord Essex in the Parliamentary army lately at Edgehill. My cousin, Sir Randolph Harby, is a prisoner in your hands. Your friend, Mr. Evander Cloud, is a prisoner in mine. I will exchange my prisoner for your prisoner; but the life of Mr. Evander Cloud is answerable for the life of Randolph Harby. Such is the sure promise and steadfast vow of his cousin and the King’s true subject, Brilliana Harby.”

As she read, the dour face of Rufus brightened, and he rubbed his hands in satisfaction at the close.

“By the Lord, an honest thought,” he chuckled. “Swing Randolph, swing rat-face.”

Evander smiled disdainfully.

“I am no spy,” he asserted, firmly, “and by the laws of war you have no right to my life.”

Brilliana turned on him tauntingly.

“You were taken a rebel in arms and your life is at my mercy.”

“Then,” said Evander, calmly, “add to your letter my wish that Colonel Cromwell take no thought of me.”

Brilliana stamped impatiently.

“I am not your secretary,” she said, sharply.

“It does not matter,” Evander answered, smoothly. “Colonel Cromwell will follow the laws of war.”

“I am sorry for you if he do,” Brilliana declared. “We shall test the strength of Colonel Cromwell’s love.” She called, loudly, “John Thoroughgood.”

Thoroughgood advanced to her from where he stood removed.

“Ride with a white flag,” Brilliana went on; “ride hard to my Lord Essex’s army, wherever it may be. Where is my Lord Essex, Rufus?”

“They have retired, I think, upon Warwick,” Rufus said, doubtfully.

“Well,” Brilliana continued, “to the rebel army, wherever you can find it. Deliver this letter into the hands of Colonel Cromwell. Bring back his answer swiftly. Ride as if you were riding for your life.”

Thoroughgood saluted, took the letter, and turned to go. Brilliana stopped him.

“First quarter Captain Cloud in the west room, and see him well tended.”

Evander bowed.

“I thank you,” he said, and followed Thoroughgood out of the room. Brilliana turned to Rufus.

“I trust you will all feast here to-night.”

Rufus shook his head sadly.

“Tears in my eyes and heart, but not possible. We join the King to-night for Banbury.” He came close to her and spoke low. “Bright Brilliana, will you not give me your golden promise ere I go?”

“You must not ask that yet,” Brilliana pleaded. “I must know my own mind.”

Sir Rufus banged his hands together.

“By God, I know mine, and my mind is to win you if I have to kill a regiment of rivals.”

Brilliana pretended to shudder at his ferocity.

“Lord! you are a very violent lover.”

Rufus did not deny her.

“I am a very earnest lover, a very desperate lover.”

Brilliana made a gesture of protest.

“Fie, this is no love-talk time, when the King is fighting. Ride, gallant Rufus, come back with loyal laurels and the flags of canting rebels, and see how I shall welcome you.”

Rufus caught her hands.

“Must I be content with this?” he asked, hotly.

“You must be content with this,” Brilliana replied, coolly. “Here come your brothers-in-arms.”

The doors of the banqueting-hall opened, and Fawley, Radlett, Bardon, Ingrow, and Halfman came in, all brighter for wine and food.

“’Tis boot and saddle, Rufus,” Fawley cried.

“I am yours,” Rufus answered. He bowed over Brilliana’s fingers. “Farewell, lady.”

One and all they turned and left her, and as they tramped into the air the chorus of the Cavalier song came back to her happy ears.

 
“And we will sing, boys, God bless the King, boys,
Cast up your hats, and cry Vive le Roy.”
 

XIII
A GILDED CAGE

Evander awoke in a strange world steeped in lavender. It was long since he had lain so soft, long since he had drifted out of dreams to breathe lavender. His pleased senses, less alert for very ease and pleasure, denied him immediate knowledge of his whereabouts. He saw a fair room, well appointed; he welcomed the morning sunlight through delicate, unfamiliar curtains; he questioned the insisting deliciousness of lavender. Where was he? What was this chamber of calm panelled in pale oak? It was not Leyden, it was not Cambridge; then in a flash he knew. It was the west room at Harby – Harby where he lay a prisoner on parole, Harby which he had tried to take and which had ended by taking him. He leaped from his bed instantly, well awake, well alive, and gaining the window peeped through the parted curtains. He looked out across the moat on the terrace to the rear of Harby, beyond which lay the spacious gardens for which Harby was held famous. His men had held that terrace twenty-four hours earlier; now they had vanished as if they had never been, save for the testimony of the trampled grass. In their place a solitary figure sat on a baluster drinking smoke contemplatively from a pipe of clay. Evander knew him for Halfman – knew, too, that Halfman watched there for him, for the moment the curtains parted the sitter rose and, advancing towards the edge of the moat, waved and voiced salutation to Evander.

“Give you good-morning, gallant capitano,” he called. “Jocund day stands on the top of yon high eastern hill. Will it please your worthiness to be stirring?”

“Very willingly,” Evander called back. “Have I overslept?”

Halfman made a gesture of protestation.

“Nay, nay,” he answered. “Your time is your own nag here, to amble, pad, or gallop as you choose. Have I your permission to wait upon you in your apartment?”

On Evander’s assurances that nothing would afford him greater pleasure, Halfman favored him with a military salute, and, crossing the moat by the now restored bridge, disappeared inside the house. Evander hastened to clothe himself, a task which he had but partially accomplished when the drumming of a pair of hands upon the door informed him that his custodian waited at the threshold. He opened the door, and Halfman walked in wearing for the occasion a manner in which good-fellowship and condescension, with the consideration of a noble victor for a noble vanquished, were artfully blended and emphatically interpreted. He held out his hand for Evander’s and gave to it a martial pressure.

“A soldier should ever be abroad betimes,” he asserted. “Wherefore I applaud your rising.”

Evander inquired again, somewhat anxiously, if he had been expected to appear before, which again Halfman denied.

“Since you have passed your parole,” he affirmed, “Harby Hall is Liberty Hall for you as far as to the park limits. I would have battered at your door ere this, but I respected your first sleep in a strange bed, wherein often a bad night makes a late matins. Can you break your fast?”

Evander answering that he could, Halfman called upon him to follow, and led the way into an adjoining room, which was, so he assured Evander, set at his disposal during the period of his stay. The room, like the bedchamber, was panelled of oak, was handsomely furnished, and its long windows, which occupied almost the entirety of one wall, afforded the same view of terrace and garden that Evander had already seen. Much had been newly done, so Evander could see, to brighten and cheer the place. A bowl of royal roses stood on the buffet, and Evander smiled at the delicate defiance. In the alcove of the window-seat a number of books were piled, books that had patently been newly dusted, and Evander, glancing at these, found that they were all theological, an attention which made him smile. A table decked with lily-white linen and silver furniture bore preparations for a meal.

“Here, sir,” said Halfman, cheerfully, “for some few hours of flying time, you are, in a word, king of the castle. These rooms are yours to eat in, read in, pray in, sleep in – what you please. None shall disturb your privacy without your leave.”

Evander guessed that his hostess had found this way of treating him well and yet keeping her from his presence. There was bitterness in the thought that she must needs hate him so deeply. It may be that something of the bitterness of the thought asserted itself on Evander’s face, and that Halfman misread it thinking he read the prisoner’s thoughts clearly.

“Do not think,” he proceeded, “that you are cabined and cribbed to these walls. All Harby Park is your pleasant paradise when you are pleased to walk abroad, and after you have broken your fast I shall be pleased to guide you through its glories. And now, will you that I eat with you? I have kept myself fasting, or wellnigh fasting, till now, but if you would rather break your bread in solitude say, without offence given, what I shall hear without offence taken.”

Evander assured his companion that he desired his company of all things. Indeed, had Halfman been other than he was, Evander would have preferred any companionship that kept him from his melancholy thoughts. And already Halfman attracted him, or at least interested him. His fantastical manner, his fluent speech, his assurance, and that note of something foreign, odd, as characteristic, as conclusive, as the scorch of foreign suns upon his face, appealed to the curiosity in Evander which ever made men books for him. Halfman’s manner grew more expansive at Evander’s ready acceptance of his offer. He was now the magnificent host, soldier still, but soldier at his ease, and he played at Lord of Harby with enthusiasm.

“You are in the right,” he said. “It is ill for man to sit alone at meat, for it encourages whimsical humors and the mounting of crudities to the brain. A flagon is twice a flagon that is shared by camerados, and who can praise a pasty to himself with only dumb walls to echo his plaudits? And here in good time come flagon and pasty, both.”

The door had opened as he spoke, and Mistress Satchell came into the room, followed by a brace of serving-men who bore on trays the materials for an ample repast. Halfman eyed the viands with approval, while Evander returned gravely Mrs. Satchell’s florid bobs and greetings.

“I saw to it last night,” he went on, “that Harby was revictualled. You pinched us, sir, you pared us; our larder was as lean as a stork’s leg, but to-day we can eat our fill.”

And, indeed, the table now being spread by Mrs. Satchell’s directions bore out the assertion of Halfman. Jolly, white loaves, a grinning boar’s head, a pasty with a golden dome, a ham the color of a pink flower, and a dish of cold game tempted hunger where flagons of white wine and red wine tempted thirst. Halfman dismissed Mrs. Satchell and her satellites affably.

“We can wait upon ourselves,” he averred. “We shall be more private so,” and he motioned Evander to a seat and took his own place opposite. “Yes,” he said, resuming the thread of his thought, as he piled a plate for Evander, “you did your best to starve us; we must not do the like by you.”

Evander smiled as he stayed the generosity of his host’s hands and accepted from his reluctance a plate less lavishly charged with viands than Halfman had proposed to offer him.

“Yet,” he said, “I think I heard, no later ago than yesterday, much clatter of dishes and much rattling of cups and all the sounds of plenty.”

Halfman hurriedly bolted a goodly slice of ham lest it should choke him while he laughed, which he now did heartily, lolling back in his chair. He was honestly amused, and yet it seemed to Evander as if there were something in his strange friend’s mirth which was carefully calculated to produce its effect. Indeed, Halfman, as he laughed, was thinking of Sir John Falstaff’s full-bodied thunders over some ticklish misdoings of Bardolph or Nym. When he had enough of his own performance, he allowed the laughter to die as suddenly as it had dawned, and gave tongue.

“That was the best jest in the world,” he chuckled. “Clatter of dishes, say you, and rattle of cups. Once, when I was in Aleppo, I heard an old fellow in an Abraham beard telling a tale to a crowd of Moors. I had not enough of their lingo to know why they laughed, but one who was with me that had more Moorish told me the tale. It was of one who invited a poor man to his house and pretended to feed him nobly, naming this fair dish and that fine wine, and pressing meat and drink upon him, while all the while, in very mockery, there was neither bite in any platter nor sup in any bottle. Well, excellent sir, our table of yesterday was in some such case.”

Evander nodded. “I guessed as much,” he commented. “But, indeed, it was bravely done.”

“It was bravely devised,” Halfman asserted. “It was my lady’s thought. She would never let a rascally Roundhead – I crave your pardon, she would never let an enemy – dream that we were in lack of aught at Harby that could help us to serve the King.”

“Your lady is a very brave lady,” Evander said, quietly. Halfman caught at his words with a kind of cheer in his voice.

“Hippolyta was not more valiant, nor Parthian Candace, nor French Joan. She is the rose of the world, the fairest fair, the valiantest valor. There is no wine in the world that is worthy to pledge her, but we must do our best with what we have.”

He filled himself a spacious tankard as he spoke and drained it at a draught. Evander listened to his ebullient praises in silence. He did not think that the Lady of Harby should be so spoken of and by such an one. Over-eating and especially over-drinking were ever distasteful to him, and he took it that Halfman was on the high-road to becoming drunk. But in this he was wrong. When Halfman set down his vessel he was as sober as when he had lifted it, but of a sudden a shade graver, as if Evander’s silence had shadowed his boisterous gayety. He pushed the beaker from him with a sigh, and then, seeing that Evander’s plate was empty, offered to ply him with more food. On Evander’s refusal he pushed back his chair. “Well,” he said, “if your stomach is stayed, are you for a stroll in the gardens – will you see lawns and parks of fairyland?”

Evander willingly acquiesced, and the strangely assorted pair rose and quitted the chamber. They met Mistress Satchell on the threshold, and Tiffany hiding slyly behind her highness. Evander smilingly complimented Mistress Satchell on the excellence of her table, to the good dame’s great gratification. But much to Tiffany’s indignation he paid little heed to her pretty face.