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The Tavern Knight

R >> Rafael Sabatini >> The Tavern Knight



THE TAVERN KNIGHT by Rafael Sabatini



CONTENTS

I. ON THE MARCH

II. ARCADES AMBO

III. THE LETTER

IV. AT THE SIGN OF THE MITRE

V. AFTER WORCESTER FIELD

VI. COMPANIONS IN MISFORTUNE

VII. THE TAVERN KNIGHT'S STORY

VIII. THE TWISTED BAR

IX. THE BARGAIN

X. THE ESCAPE

XI. THE ASHBURNS

XII. THE HOUSE THAT WAS ROLAND MARLEIGH'S

XIII. THE METAMORPHOSIS OF KENNETH

XIV. THE HEART OF CYNTHIA ASHBURN

XV. JOSEPH'S RETURN

XVI. THE RECKONING

XVII. JOSEPH DRIVES A BARGAIN

XVIII. COUNTER-PLOT

XIX. THE INTERRUPTED JOURNEY

XX. THE CONVERTED HOGAN

XXI. THE MESSAGE KENNETH BORE

XXII. SIR CRISPIN'S UNDERTAKING

XXIII. GREGORY'S ATTRITION

XXIV. THE WOOING OF CYNTHIA

XXV. CYNTHIA'S FLIGHT

XXVI. TO FRANCE

XXVII. THE AUBERGINE DU SOLEIL






THE TAVERN KNIGHT By Rafael Sabatini




CHAPTER I

ON THE MARCH

He whom they called the Tavern Knight laughed an evil laugh -
such a laugh as might fall from the lips of Satan in a sardonic
moment.

He sat within the halo of yellow light shed by two tallow
candles, whose sconces were two empty bottles, and
contemptuously he eyed the youth in black, standing with white
face and quivering lip in a corner of the mean chamber. Then
he laughed again, and in a hoarse voice, sorely suggestive of
the bottle, he broke into song. He lay back in his chair, his
long, spare legs outstretched, his spurs jingling to the lilt
of his ditty whose burden ran:

On the lip so red of the wench that's sped
His passionate kiss burns, still-O!
For 'tis April time, and of love and wine
Youth's way is to take its fill-O!
Down, down, derry-do!

So his cup he drains and he shakes his reins,
And rides his rake-helly way-O!
She was sweet to woo and most comely, too,
But that was all yesterday-O!
Down, down, derry-do!

The lad started forward with something akin to a shiver.

"Have done," he cried, in a voice of loathing, "or, if croak
you must, choose a ditty less foul!"

"Eh?" The ruffler shook back the matted hair from his lean,
harsh face, and a pair of eyes that of a sudden seemed ablaze
glared at his companion; then the lids drooped until those eyes
became two narrow slits - catlike and cunning - and again he
laughed.

"Gad's life, Master Stewart, you have a temerity that should
save you from grey hairs! What is't to you what ditty my fancy
seizes on? 'Swounds, man, for three weary months have I curbed
my moods, and worn my throat dry in praising the Lord; for
three months have I been a living monument of Covenanting zeal
and godliness; and now that at last I have shaken the dust of
your beggarly Scotland from my heels, you - the veriest milksop
that ever ran tottering from its mother's lap would chide me
because, yon bottle being done, I sing to keep me from waxing
sad in the contemplation of its emptiness!"

There was scorn unutterable on the lad's face as he turned
aside.

"When I joined Middleton's horse and accepted service under
you, I held you to be at least a gentleman," was his daring
rejoinder.

For an instant that dangerous light gleamed again from his
companion's eye. Then, as before, the lids drooped, and, as
before, he laughed.

"Gentleman!" he mocked. "On my soul, that's good! And what
may you know of gentlemen, Sir Scot? Think you a gentleman is
a Jack Presbyter, or a droning member of your kirk committee,
strutting it like a crow in the gutter? Gadswounds, boy, when
I was your age, and George Villiers lived - "

"Oh, have done!" broke in the youth impetuously. "Suffer me to
leave you, Sir Crispin, to your bottle, your croaking, and your
memories."

"Aye, go your ways, sir; you'd be sorry company for a dead man
- the sorriest ever my evil star led me into. The door is
yonder, and should you chance to break your saintly neck on the
stairs, it is like to be well for both of us."

And with that Sir Crispin Galliard lay back in his chair once
more, and took up the thread of his interrupted song

But, heigh-o! she cried, at the Christmas-tide,
That dead she would rather be-O!
Pale and wan she crept out of sight, and wept

'Tis a sorry -

A loud knock that echoed ominously through the mean chamber,
fell in that instant upon the door. And with it came a panting
cry of -

"Open, Cris! Open, for the love of God!"

Sir Crispin's ballad broke off short, whilst the lad paused in
the act of quitting the room, and turned to look to him for
direction.

"Well, my master," quoth Galliard, "for what do you wait?"

"To learn your wishes, sir," was the answer sullenly delivered.

"My wishes! Rat me, there's one without whose wishes brook
less waiting! Open, fool!"

Thus rudely enjoined, the lad lifted the latch and set wide the
door, which opened immediately upon the street. Into the
apartment stumbled a roughly clad man of huge frame. He was
breathing hard, and fear was writ large upon his rugged face.
An instant he paused to close the door after him, then turning
to Galliard, who had risen and who stood eyeing him in
astonishment -

"Hide me somewhere, Cris," he panted - his accent proclaiming
his Irish origin. "My God, hide me, or I'm a dead man this
night!"

"'Slife, Hogan! What is toward? Has Cromwell overtaken us?"

"Cromwell, quotha? Would to Heaven 'twere no worse! I've
killed a man!"

"If he's dead, why run?"

The Irishman made an impatient gesture.

"A party of Montgomery's foot is on my heels. They've raised
the whole of Penrith over the affair, and if I'm taken, soul of
my body, 'twill be a short shrift they'll give me. The King
will serve me as poor Wrycraft was served two days ago at
Kendal. Mother of Mercy!" he broke off, as his ear caught the
clatter of feet and the murmur of voices from without. "Have
you a hole I can creep into?"

"Up those stairs and into my room with you!" said Crispin
shortly. "I will try to head them off. Come, man, stir
yourself; they are here."

Then, as with nimble alacrity Hogan obeyed him and slipped from
the room, he turned to the lad, who had been a silent spectator
of what had passed. From the pocket of his threadbare doublet
he drew a pack of greasy playing cards.

"To table," he said laconically.

But the boy, comprehending what was required of him, drew back
at sight of those cards as one might shrink from a thing
unclean.

"Never!" he began. "I'll not defile - "

"To table, fool!" thundered Crispin, with a vehemence few men
could have withstood. "Is this a time for Presbyterian
scruples? To table, and help a me play this game, or, by the
living God, I'll - " Without completing his threat he leaned
forward until Kenneth felt his hot, wine-laden breath upon his
cheek. Cowed by his words, his gesture, and above all, his
glance, the lad drew up a chair, mumbling in explanation -
intended as an excuse to himself for his weakness - that he
submitted since a man's life was at stake.

Opposite him Galliard resumed his seat with a mocking smile
that made him wince. Taking up the cards, he flung a portion
of them to the boy, whilst those he retained he spread fanwise
in his hand as if about to play. Silently Kenneth copied his
actions.

Nearer and louder grew the sounds of the approach, lights
flashed before the window, and the two men, feigning to play,
sat on and waited.

"Have a care, Master Stewart," growled Crispin sourly, then in
a louder voice - for his quick eye had caught a glimpse of a
face that watched them from the window - "I play the King of
Spades!" he cried, with meaning look.

A blow was struck upon the door, and with it came the command
to "Open in the King's name!" Softly Sir Crispin rapped out an
oath. Then he rose, and with a last look of warning to
Kenneth, he went to open. And as he had greeted Hogan he now
greeted the crowd mainly of soldiers - that surged about the
threshold.

"Sirs, why this ado? Hath the Sultan Oliver descended upon
us?"

In one hand he still held his cards, the other he rested upon
the edge of the open door. It was a young ensign who stood
forward to answer him.

"One of Lord Middleton's officers hath done a man to death not
half an hour agone; he is an Irishman Captain Hogan by name."

"Hogan - Hogan?" repeated Crispin, after the manner of one who
fumbles in his memory. "Ah, yes - an Irishman with a grey head
and a hot temper. And he is dead, you say?"

"Nay, he has done the killing."

"That I can better understand. 'Tis not the first time, I'll
be sworn."

"But it will be the last, Sir Crispin."

"Like enough. The King is severe since we crossed the Border."
Then in a brisker tone: "I thank you for bringing me this
news," said he, "and I regret that in my poor house there be
naught I can offer you wherein to drink His Majesty's health
ere you proceed upon your search. Give you good night, sir."
And by drawing back a pace he signified his wish to close the
door and be quit of them.

"We thought," faltered the young officer, "that - that
perchance you would assist us by - "

"Assist you!" roared Crispin, with a fine assumption of anger.
"Assist you take a man? Sink me, sir, I would have you know I
am a soldier, not a tipstaff!"

The ensign's cheeks grew crimson under the sting of that veiled
insult.

"There are some, Sir Crispin, that have yet another name for
you."

"Like enough - when I am not by," sneered Crispin. "The world
is full of foul tongues in craven heads. But, sirs, the night
air is chill and you are come inopportunely, for, as you'll
perceive, I was at play. Haply you'll suffer me to close the
door."

"A moment, Sir Crispin. We must search this house. He is
believed to have come this way."

Crispin yawned. "I will spare you the trouble. You may take
it from me that he could not be here without my knowledge. I
have been in this room these two hours past."

"Twill not suffice," returned the officer doggedly. "We must
satisfy ourselves."

"Satisfy yourselves?" echoed the other, in tones of deep
amazement. "What better satisfaction can I afford you than my
word? 'Swounds, sir jackanapes," he added, in a roar that sent
the lieutenant back a pace as though he had been struck, "am I
to take it that your errand is a trumped-up business to affront
me? First you invite me to turn tipstaff, then you add your
cursed innuendoes of what people say of me, and now you end by
doubting me! You must satisfy yourself!" he thundered, waxing
fiercer at every word. "Linger another moment on that
threshold, and d -n me, sir, I'll give you satisfaction of
another flavour! Be off!"

Before that hurricane of passion the ensign recoiled, despite
himself.

"I will appeal to General Montgomery," he threatened.

"Appeal to the devil! Had you come hither with your errand in
a seemly fashion you had found my door thrown wide in welcome,
and I had received you courteously. As it is, sir, the cause
for complaint is on my side, and complain I will. We shall see
whether the King permits an old soldier who has followed the
fortunes of his family these eighteen years to be flouted by a
malapert bantam of yesterday's brood!"

The subaltern paused in dismay. Some demur there was in the
gathered crowd. Then the officer fell back a pace, and
consulted an elderly trooper at his elbow. The trooper was of
opinion that the fugitive must have gone farther. Moreover, he
could not think, from what Sir Crispin had said, that it would
have been possible for Hogan to have entered the house. With
this, and realizing that much trouble and possible loss of time
must result from Sir Crispin's obstinacy, did they attempt to
force a way into the house, and bethinking himself, also,
maybe, how well this rascally ruffler stood with Lord
Middleton, the ensign determined to withdraw, and to seek
elsewhere.

And so he took his leave with a venomous glance, and a parting
threat to bring the matter to the King's ears, upon which
Galliard slammed the door before he had finished.

There was a curious smile on Crispin's face as he walked slowly
to the table, and resumed his seat.

"Master Stewart," he whispered, as he spread his cards anew,
"the comedy is not yet played out. There is a face glued to
the window at this moment, and I make little doubt that for the
next hour or so we shall be spied upon. That pretty fellow was
born to be a thief-taker."

The boy turned a glance of sour reproof upon his companion. He
had not stirred from his chair while Crispin had been at the
door.

"You lied to them," he said at last.

"Sh! Not so loud, sweet youth," was the answer that lost
nothing of menace by being subdued. "Tomorrow, if you please,
I will account to you for offending your delicate soul by
suggesting a falsehood in your presence. To-night we have a
man's life to save, and that, I think, is work enough. Come,
Master Stewart, we are being watched. Let us resume our game."

His eye, fixed in cold command upon the boy, compelled
obedience. And the lad, more out of awe of that glance than
out of any desire to contribute to the saving of Hogan, mutely
consented to keep up this pretence. But in his soul he
rebelled. He had been reared in an atmosphere of honourable
and religious bigotry. Hogan was to him a coarse ruffler; an
evil man of the sword; such a man as he abhorred and accounted
a disgrace to any army - particularly to an army launched upon
England under the auspices of the Solemn League and Covenant.

Hogan had been guilty of an act of brutality; he had killed a
man; and Kenneth deemed himself little better, since he
assisted in harbouring instead of discovering him, as he held
to be his duty. But 'neath the suasion of Galliard's
inexorable eye he sat limp and docile, vowing to himself that
on the morrow he would lay the matter before Lord Middleton,
and thus not only endeavour to make amends for his present
guilty silence, but rid himself also of the companionship of
this ruffianly Sir Crispin, to whom no doubt a hempen justice
would be meted.

Meanwhile, he sat on and left his companion's occasional
sallies unanswered. In the street men stirred and lanthorns
gleamed fitfully, whilst ever and anon a face surmounted by a
morion would be pressed against the leaded panes of the window.

Thus an hour wore itself out during which poor Hogan sat above,
alone with his anxiety and unsavoury thoughts.




CHAPTER II

ARCADES AMBO


Towards midnight at last Sir Crispin flung down his cards and
rose. It was close upon an hour and a half since Hogan's
advent. In the streets the sounds had gradually died down, and
peace seemed to reign again in Penrith. Yet was Sir Crispin
cautious - for to be cautious and mistrustful of appearances
was the lesson life had taught him.

"Master Stewart," said he, "it grows late, and I doubt me you
would be abed. Give you good night!"

The lad rose. A moment he paused, hesitating, then -

"To-morrow, Sir Crispin - " he began. But Crispin cut him
short.

"Leave to-morrow till it dawn, my friend. Give you good night.
Take one of those noisome tapers with you, and go."

In sullen silence the boy took up one of the candle-bearing
bottles and passed out through the door leading to the stairs.

For a moment Crispin remained standing by the table, and in
that moment the expression of his face was softened. A
momentary regret of his treatment of the boy stirred in him.
Master Stewart might be a milksop, but Crispin accounted him
leastways honest, and had a kindness for him in spite of all.
He crossed to the window, and throwing it wide he leaned out,
as if to breathe the cool night air, what time he hummed the
refrain of `Rub-a-dub-dub' for the edification of any chance
listeners.

For a half-hour he lingered there, and for all that he used the
occasion to let his mind stray over many a theme, his eyes were
alert for the least movement among the shadows of the street.
Reassured at last that the house was no longer being watched,
he drew back, and closed the lattice.

Upstairs he found the Irishman seated in dejection upon his
bed, awaiting him.

"Soul of my body!" cried Hogan ruefully, "I was never nearer
being afraid in my life."

Crispin laughed softly for answer, and besought of him the tale
of what had passed.

"Tis simple enough, faith," said Hogan coolly. "The landlord
of The Angel hath a daughter maybe 'twas after her he named his
inn - who owns a pair of the most seductive eyes that ever a
man saw perdition in. She hath, moreover, a taste for
dalliance, and my brave looks and martial trappings did for her
what her bold eyes had done for me. We were becoming the
sweetest friends, when, like an incarnate fiend, that loutish
clown, her lover, sweeps down upon us, and, with more jealousy
than wit, struck me - struck me, Harry Hogan! Soul of my body,
think of it, Cris!" And he grew red with anger at the
recollection. "I took him by the collar of his mean smock and
flung him into the kennel - the fittest bed he ever lay in.
Had he remained there it had been well for him; but the fool,
accounting himself affronted, came up to demand satisfaction.
I gave it him, and plague on it - he's dead!"

"An ugly tale," was Crispin's sour comment.

"Ugly, maybe," returned Hogan, spreading out his palms, "but
what choice had I? The fool came at me, bilbo in hand, and I
was forced to draw.'

"But not to slay, Hogan!"

"Twas an accident. Sink me, it was! I sought his sword-arm;
but the light was bad, and my point went through his chest
instead."

For a moment Crispin stood frowning, then his brow cleared, as
though he had put the matter from him.

"Well, well - since he's dead, there's an end to it."

"Heaven rest his soul!" muttered the Irishman, crossing himself
piously. And with that he dismissed the subject of the great
wrong that through folly he had wrought - the wanton
destruction of a man's life, and the poisoning of a woman's
with a remorse that might be everlasting.

"It will tax our wits to get you out of Penrith," said Crispin.
Then, turning and looking into the Irishman's great,
good-humoured face - "I am sorry you leave us, Hogan," he
added.

"Not so am I," quoth Hogan with a shrug. "Such a march as this
is little to my taste. Bah! Charles Stuart or Oliver Cromwell,
'tis all one to me. What care I whether King or Commonwealth
prevail? Shall Harry Hogan be the better or the richer under
one than under the other? Oddslife, Cris, I have trailed a
pike or handled a sword in well-nigh every army in Europe. I
know more of the great art of war than all the King's generals
rolled into one. Think you, then, I can rest content with a
miserable company of horse when plunder is forbidden, and even
our beggarly pay doubtful? Whilst, should things go ill - as
well they may, faith, with an army ruled by parsons - the wage
will be a swift death on field or gallows, or a lingering one
in the plantations, as fell to the lot of those poor wretches
Noll drove into England after Dunbar. Soul of my body, it is
not thus that I had looked to fare when I took service at
Perth. I had looked for plunder, rich and plentiful plunder,
according to the usages of warfare, as a fitting reward for a
toilsome march and the perils gone through.

"Thus I know war, and for this have I followed the trade these
twenty years. Instead, we have thirty thousand men, marching
to battle as prim and orderly as a parcel of acolytes in a
Corpus-Christi procession. 'Twas not so bad in Scotland haply
because the country holds naught a man may profitably plunder -
but since we have crossed the Border, 'slife, they'll hang you
if you steal so much as a kiss from a wench in passing."

"Why, true," laughed Crispin, "the Second Charles hath an
over-tender stomach. He will not allow that we are marching
through an enemy's country; he insists that England is his
kingdom, forgetting that he has yet to conquer it, and - "

"Was it not also his father's kingdom?" broke in the impetuous
Hogan. "Yet times are sorely changed since we followed the
fortunes of the Martyr. In those days you might help yourself
to a capon, a horse, a wench, or any other trifle of the
enemy's, without ever a word of censure or a question asked.
Why, man, it is but two days since His Majesty had a poor devil
hanged at Kendal for laying violent hands upon a pullet. Pox
on it, Cris, my gorge rises at the thought! When I saw that
wretch strung up, I swore to fall behind at the earliest
opportunity, and to-night's affair makes this imperative."

"And what may your plans be?" asked Crispin.

"War is my trade, not a diversion, as it is with Wilmot and
Buckingham and the other pretty gentlemen of our train. And
since the King's army is like to yield me no profit, faith,
I'll turn me to the Parliament's. If I get out of Penrith with
my life, I'll shave my beard and cut my hair to a comely and
godly length; don a cuckoldy steeple hat and a black coat, and
carry my sword to Cromwell with a line of text."

Sir Crispin fell to pondering. Noting this, and imagining that
he guessed aright the reason:

"I take it, Cris," he put in, keenly glancing at the other,
"that you are much of my mind?"

"Maybe I am," replied Crispin carelessly.

"Why, then," cried Hogan, "need we part company?"

There was a sudden eagerness in his tone, born of the
admiration in which this rough soldier of fortune held one whom
he accounted his better in that same harsh trade. But Galliard
answered coldly:

"You forget, Harry."

"Not so! Surely on Cromwell's side your object - "

"T'sh! I have well considered. My fortunes are bound up with
the King's. In his victory alone lies profit for me; not the
profit of pillage, Hogan, but the profit of those broad lands
that for nigh upon twenty years have been in usurping hands.
The profit I look for, Hogan, is my restoration to Castle
Marleigh, and of this my only hope lies in the restoration of
King Charles. If the King doth not prevail - which God
forfend! - why, then, I can but die. I shall have naught left
to hope for from life. So you see, good Hogan," he ended with
a regretful smile, "my going with you is not to be dreamed of."

Still the Irishman urged him, and a good half-hour did he
devote to it, but in vain. Realizing at last the futility of
his endeavours, he sighed and moved uneasily in his chair,
whilst the broad, tanned face was clouded with regret. Crispin
saw this, and approaching him, he laid a hand upon his
shoulder.

"I had counted upon your help to clear the Ashburns from Castle
Marleigh and to aid me in my grim work when the time is ripe.
But if you go - "

"Faith, I may aid you yet. Who shall say?" Then of a sudden
there crept into the voice of this hardened pike-trader a note
of soft concern. "Think you there be danger to yourself in
remaining?" he inquired.

"Danger? To me?" echoed Crispin.

"Aye - for having harboured me. That whelp of Montgomery's
Foot suspects you."

"Suspects? Am I a man of straw to be overset by a breath of
suspicion?"

"There is your lieutenant, Kenneth Stewart."

"Who has been a party to your escape, and whose only course is
therefore silence, lest he set a noose about his own neck.
Come, Harry," he added, briskly, changing his manner, "the
night wears on, and we have your safety to think of."

Hogan rose with a sigh.

"Give me a horse," said he, "and by God's grace tomorrow shall
find me in Cromwell's camp. Heaven prosper and reward you,
Cris."

"We must find you clothes more fitting than these - a coat more
staid and better attuned to the Puritan part you are to play."

"Where have you such a coat?"

"My lieutenant has. He affects the godly black, from a habit
taken in that Presbyterian Scotland of his."

"But I am twice his bulk!"

"Better a tight coat to your back than a tight rope to your
neck, Harry. Wait."

Taking a taper, he left the room, to return a moment later with
the coat that Kenneth had worn that day, and which he had
abstracted from the sleeping lad's chamber.

"Off with your doublet," he commanded, and as he spoke he set
himself to empty the pocket of Kenneth's garment; a
handkerchief and a few papers he found in them, and these he
tossed carelessly on the bed. Next he assisted the Irishman to
struggle into the stolen coat.

"May the Lord forgive my sins," groaned Hogan, as he felt the
cloth straining upon his back and cramping his limbs. "May He
forgive me, and see me safely out of Penrith and into
Cromwell's camp, and never again will I resent the resentment
of a clown whose sweetheart I have made too free with."

"Pluck that feather from your hat," said Crispin.

Hogan obeyed him with a sigh.

"Truly it is written in Scripture that man in his time plays
many parts. Who would have thought to see Harry Hogan playing
the Puritan?"

"Unless you improve your acquaintance with Scripture you are
not like to play it long," laughed Crispin, as he surveyed him.
"There, man, you'll do well enough. Your coat is somewhat
tight in the back, somewhat short in the skirt; but neither so
tight nor so short but that it may be preferred to a
winding-sheet, and that is the alternative, Harry."

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