XXVIII
Of My Adventure at the Wayside Inn
I was exceedingly well pleased to regain my liberty on such easy terms, and said so to the trooper who conducted me outside the camp, and who was the same grayheaded man that had brought me in earlier in the day. Also I was somewhat interested at the behaviour towards me of General Cromwell, whom I had previously imagined to be more likely to hang me from the nearest tree than to send me home again to my hayricks.
“You doubtless gained his favour, Master Dale,” said the old trooper, “by telling him that you had as much right to fight for the King as he had to fight against him. He liketh plain speaking, doth Master Oliver, whether it is in his own way or not. But it is not with such as you that our quarrel is. I dare say you do honestly fight for the King, knowing no better, and believing you do your duty thereby. Against that I have naught to say. But there are those about the King and in his army who do corrupt him with evil counsels, loving not the liberty and advantage of the nation, but rather thinking of their own selfish ends, and it is with these that our quarrel lies. Yea, and will lie until God hath swept them away from the face of the earth, and England is free again. And now, lad, you are outside the camp and can go without let or question, and so fare you well.”
In this way I took leave of the enemy, and rode away through Askham Bryan towards Tadcaster, glad enough to be free to go after my own affairs. My head was very full of my late adventures as I rode along. It was only forty-eight hours since I had left home, and yet I had seen in that time more than ever I had seen in all the previous years of my life. I had carried a despatch from the King to Prince Rupert and had heard a council held between the Prince and his generals, I had gone into battle and slain more than one man and got wounded myself, and I had been taken prisoner and had held parley with General Cromwell. Here was enough to make one think deeply, and I wondered what the people at home would say to it. Somehow it seemed a long, long time since I saw the farmhouse lights and the faces of those I loved. A whole age seemed to have gone by since I had ridden away on that errand to York. I wondered if the wounded officer still lay at our house, and if all had gone well since I left. I had seen enough of war to make me satisfied, and I resolved as we sped homewards that in future I should stay where my duty required me to be rather than go forth to seek adventures. And yet I should have done the same thing again under similar circumstances. The villages along the roadside were busy enough even at that late hour of the evening. Fugitives of the Royalist army had fled or crept along the highway all day long, wounded and weary, and were filling the inns by which I passed. The road itself was thronged with carts and wagons filled with wounded men, going I know not whither. For the first few miles I was stopped more than once by Roundhead soldiers, who let me go on at once on seeing a passport I had received from General Cromwell. Of Royalist troops I saw none; they were apparently dispersed in other directions.
When I came to Aberford I determined to take the road which runs through Castleford, rather than follow the usual route to Brotherton and Ferrybridge. This I decided upon for two reasons: first, the road through Castleford would take me in an almost straight line to Pontefract; and, second, it would probably be not so thronged as the other highway. So I went on and made good progress for a while, but before I had come to Kippax, Captain suddenly went dead lame and hobbled so sorely that I was forced to dismount and lead him by the bridle. Poor beast, he had gone through some sorely trying work since leaving home, and in addition to it had received a slight wound in his left shoulder from a pike-thrust aimed at him by one of the Roundhead foot. It was a most unfortunate matter, however, that he should fail me at this juncture, for I was then but five miles from Pontefract and eight from home, and should have been at Dale’s Field in two hours if all had gone well.
There was nothing for it but to give Captain a rest, and I accordingly led him a little way further, to where the wayside inn stands at the four crossroads beyond Kippax. That is a lonely house and hath no other cottage near it for some distance; indeed, the landlord there gets little custom, save from those who pass along that way, going from York to Castleford, or from Leeds to Selby, such being farmers and drovers with herds of sheep or cattle. The host at that time was one John Sanderson, a Pontefract man by birth, and a right good man for such a place, being brave and honest, as wayside landlords should be, for they have many dangers to confront, and more temptations to withstand than their fellows who live in towns or villages.
Honest John, when I went into the kitchen, was drinking his own health before the fire, which was not an unwelcome sight even in July, for the night was somewhat chilly. There was another man seated on the long settle whom I did not know, but who seemed from his appearance to be a cattle-drover that had put up there for the night.
“God save us, Master Dale!” said John Sanderson. “Is it really you, and what are you doing here at this time o’ night? Surely not from York market in these troublous times? Dear heart, the sight of wounded men that we have seen this day! and ’tis said that on the Sherburn road they be twice as thick.”
“Ten times as thick, John, and that is why I chose this road. But hark ye, John, my horse has gone dead lame and can go no further. ’Tis a great pity, for I would gladly have got home as quick as may be.”
“Let me see him,” said John, and followed me into the yard. “ ’Tis not the best of times to put a horse into our stables, Master Will,” he continued, when we were clear of the house, “for there are all sorts of folks about, and my wits are that moydered that I know not how to keep an eye on right and left. Ah, I see it is Captain, that you bought from the Wakefield corn-miller, and a good horse ’tis. So ho, my lad, stand over! Yes, lame indeed, but an hour or two’s rest, Master Will, an hour or two’s rest, you see—why, ’twill put him to rights, I warrant.”
“But if your stables are not safe, John? And, hark you, I would not now lose Captain for a hundred pounds, for he hath been in battle and behaved himself like a hero. See, he hath gotten a thrust from a pikestaff in his right shoulder to show for his pains.”
“Lord, Master Will, and you have been fighting? Why, why; but now, William lad, do you bring Captain into our back kitchen, where we can keep an eye on him while he rests. There is enow straw on the floor to bed half a dozen horses, for there were four wounded men slept in it last night, that were fleeing to Pontefract Castle, only they could get no further along the road. These be sad times indeed, Master William. A pike-thrust, quotha?”
So we had Captain into the outer kitchen, and gave him a feed of corn to comfort him, after which I went and sat against the fire in the front kitchen until such time as he should be sufficiently rested to go on his journey again. And, indeed, I myself was not sorry to rest me a while, for, eager as I was to get home again, the fatigue and excitement of the past two days and nights was beginning to tell upon me and make me sleepy. So there I sat on the long settle, the drover having gone to his bed during our absence, and talked to John Sanderson about the great fight of the previous day, news of which had come to him in fragments all day long.
“Yes, indeed, Master Will,” said John, “we have had our ears warmed by this news, I warrant you. For some said that Prince Rupert and his army were cut to pieces, and that York was in flames, and Marston Moor sodden with blood. Ay, sad times indeed these be, William, of a surety.”
“You would have thought so, John, if you had been where I was yesterday,” I said, my mind dwelling on the faces of the dead men I had seen.
“Why,” said he, “I dare say it was terrible work, and old Mother Robey that lives at Church Garforth yonder, she foretold that something would come to pass ere long. For she had dreams, she said, of blood, and of horses flying through the air, which meant, she said, ill tidings and great disaster, and she saw the King’s crown fall from a pillar, all of which is sad things, Master Will, and disquieting to a sober man. Indeed, I know not what the world is coming to nowadays.”
So he went on talking, for he was glib of tongue, until his head began to nod, and presently he fell fast asleep in his chair, and left me sitting there alone in the inn kitchen. Sleep, too, was weighing down my own eyelids very heavily, and I could have stretched myself along the settle and fallen into slumber at once if it had not been for my anxiety about getting forward on my journey. However, that presently gave way under my great need of rest, and I was very soon as fast asleep as John Sanderson himself.
How long I slept I do not know, but when I awoke the fire had burnt very low, and there was a faint streak of gray light stealing in through the shutters. John Sanderson still snored heavily in his chair. I was rather cold and shivery, and was going to rise and draw the fire together, when I heard steps outside, followed by the pit-pat of a horse’s feet. A hand tapped at the door, and John not showing any sign of awaking, I went across the kitchen and undid the bolts. The morning light shone in fresh and strong as I threw the door open, and showed me the figure of a man standing outside the threshold, holding his horse by the bridle. He was turned away from me when the door opened, examining his beast’s knees, which were cut as if by a fall, but at the sound he faced round and looked full at me.
Now, I had never seen the man in my life before, and did not know him from Adam, and I was therefore something more than surprised when he started away from me as if I had been a ghost. He held up one hand to shield himself, as though I had motioned to strike him, and there came over his face such a look of terrible fear as I never saw on any other human countenance.
“God save me!” said he. “ ’Tis himself!”
“What is the matter, friend?” I cried. “It would appear that my presence causes you some uneasiness. Do I look so very dreadful, then?”
Now, a great look of relief came over the man’s face when I spoke, and he drew himself up from his frightened posture and stood staring at me curiously. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of more than middle age, clad in clothes much stained with travelling, and wearing a large horseman’s cloak over his shoulders. His hair was gray, and his face much scarred and seamed, as if he had seen all sorts of weather and taken not a few blows.
“Sir, sir,” said he, stammering some words forth in his confusion, “I beg your pardon, sir—you looked—in fact, your honour gave me a great fright. You look so much like—someone I once knew.”
He still stood and stared at me, examining my height and breadth, and glancing at my face as if he could not believe that I was other than a spirit. John Sanderson meanwhile had awoke and was standing behind me, looking at the stranger.
“Yes,” said the man once more, “so much like someone I once knew.”
“Marry,” said John Sanderson, “then you knew his father, friend, for this is the very spit of him as he was. But ’tis cold work standing here, so come in, master, if you want good accommodation for man or beast.”
The man tied his horse to a ring outside the porch, and followed us inside.
“I could eat some food,” he said, “for I have ridden a long way since night, and the horse would do with a feed of corn.”
“You shall have both,” said John. “Plague on it! who would ha’ thought the day was come already? Three o’clock, as I am a living sinner. But then, ’tis light nearly all night now.”
The stranger had taken his seat opposite me on the settle, and I noticed that he kept glancing at me in the same strangely curious fashion. I rose and went towards the outer kitchen, where Captain was still resting. The man’s eyes followed me as I moved. I looked round and caught them fixed upon me.
“You seem interested in me, friend,” I said, not exactly liking to be stared at in this manner.
“I ask your pardon,” he answered. “I have not been in these parts for many years, and I knew a man then—perhaps it was your father, as the landlord said just now. I could have sworn you were he.”
“And what made you afraid, then?”
“Because the man I took you for is dead,” he said. “Come, master, you would have been afraid yourself if you had suddenly met a man whom you fancied dead and buried these twelve years.”
“I suppose I should,” I answered, and went into the outer kitchen and led Captain forth. He seemed to have recovered by that time, and as I was anxious to be off, I laid down my reckoning for John Sanderson on the horse-block outside, and, mounting my horse, rode away out of the yard. Looking round at the gate, I saw the stranger staring at me from the window, one shutter of which he had put back to get another glimpse of me ere I departed. But as his queer fancies were naught to me, I rode away, and ere long drew rein at the Barbican in Pontefract, where I gave Sir Thomas Fairfax’s letter into safe keeping for Sir Richard Lowther, and talked a while with the guard on what things I had seen at York and Marston. They would fain have kept me there for some time, so that I might tell them more news of the battle, but I was anxious to be home, and presently set out again for Dale’s Field, where I arrived just as old Jacob, always first to rise, was coming out on the doorstep to see how the morning air smelt.