Chapter 55 - No Quarter! by Mayne Reid
Hawking at Home
The peregrines had killed cushat and partridge, the merlin its half-score of buntings and turtle-doves, and the ladies having had a surfeit of sport, were about setting faces homeward. Not that it was late—still wanting two hours of sunset—but the news from Monmouth had disquieted them, and they were feeling anxious about their father’s return. He might be back already, and if so, would wonder at their being away from the house.
Van Dorn had called off the dogs, rehooded the hawks, and made all ready for the start home, when game, of a sort that day unseen by them, came unexpectedly in view. A heron on its way across the Forest from the Severn to the Wye, flying low as it passed over the park.
Hapless heron! A temptation no falconer could resist; and at leave, or rather command, from the younger of his mistresses, off went hoods again, leashes were let loose, and once more away flew the noble falcons, mounting spirally upward.
Just at that moment the gates of the park were thrown open to admit Prince Rupert and his retinue. With Lunsford still by his side, the two had already looked through the rails and up the avenue. To see there what gave them satisfaction; the house with windows no longer shuttered, smoke ascending from several of the chimneys, in short every sign of occupation.
“The family here, as anticipated. Your Highness will not be disappointed this time.”
“Ah, wohl. I was beginning to think the lady of the golden locks an ignis fatuus—never to be caught.”
“There will be an opportunity of catching her now; and keeping her, if your Highness so desire.”
“You would counsel making the fraüleins our prisoners then? Is that what you mean, mein Colonel?”
“Their father at least should be made so. There’s every reason and right for it. He your prisoner, taken back with you to Bristol, ’tis but natural his daughters should accompany him, and share his captivity. If they have the true filial affection they’ll be but too willing to do that. Does your Highness comprehend?”
“Quite!” was the laconic response.
The suggestion, cruel and ruffianly, did not jar on Rupert’s ears; rather was it in harmony with his wishes, and half-formed designs. He was proceeding to ponder upon it, having ridden through the gate, when a cry, peculiarly intoned, came from a remote corner of the park, quick followed by a shrill whistle.
The air was still, and sounds could be heard from afar; these being clearly distinguishable.
“Ho-ho!” exclaimed the Prince, reining his horse to a stand. “Sport going on here! Somebody out hawking.”
The hooha-ha-ha was familiar to him.
“Yes,” said Lunsford. “That was a falconer’s cry—the cast-off.”
“Who might it be, Sir Thomas?”
“Impossible to say, Prince. The party must be behind that spinney of Scotch firs. But see! yonder the hawks! Peregrines in chase of a heron.”
“By’r Lady, yes! A splendid caste. Trained to perfection. How handsomely they mount up! Over him now! That stoop and rake, superb. A fig for your chances, master lance-beak. Hey! One of them bound! Now the other. Now down, down. Wunderschön!”
Absorbed in watching the actual conflict, all eyes directed upward, Rupert and his following for a time neither saw nor thought of anything else. No more did they of the hawking party, who, led by the chase, had pushed on through the spinney of firs to be forward at the kill. Only when the bound bird was writhing to free itself, in its last struggles lowering down to earth, did the two parties catch sight of one another. Not so near yet, a wide stretch of the park being between; but near enough for a mutual making out of what they were.
“Soldiers!” exclaimed they of the hawking party.
“Wenches!” the word that came from the lips of the Cavaliers.
“We’re in luck, Prince,” said Lunsford. “You see yonder?”
“Two ladies; yes. Are they the birds we’re in search of, think you?”
“Sure of it, your Highness.”
“Playing with other birds. Ha-ha! Well; suppose we join them at their play?”
“As your Highness commands.”
“Do you know them, Sir Thomas—I mean personally?”
“I’ve never been introduced, Prince; but Captain Trevor—”
“Ah! I remember your saying something about his—Trevor!” he called back to an officer of his suite, “come hither!”
Reginald Trevor it was; who, parting from his place in the line, rode up, respectfully saluting.
“If I’m not mistaken, sir,” said the Prince, “you have acquaintance with the ladies we see yonder? Presumably the daughters of Master Ambrose Powell.”
“If it be they, your Highness, I once had. But it’s been dropped long ago.”
“What! A quarrel?”
“No, Prince,” answered the young officer, somewhat hesitatingly. “Not exactly that.”
“Only a little coolness, then. Well, perhaps I may be the means of restoring, friendly relations. But first I want you to perform the ceremonial of introduction. I hope you haven’t so far offended the damsels as to render you ineligible?”
Trevor stammered out a negative, at the same time announcing his readiness to comply with the Prince’s wish. He could not help himself, knowing it was more a command than request.
“Come along, then! Let us on to them. You, Colonel, keep the escort at halt here, till I ascertain whether we can have a night’s lodging at Hollymead House. That is,” he added in a jocular way, “whether we’ll be made welcome to it.”
Saying which, he gave his Arab a touch of the spur, and started off at a canter over the green sward, direct for the hawking party.
Of course Reginald Trevor went along with him; though with a reluctance which had only yielded to authority not to be gainsaid. Despite her withering words spoken at their last interview, he still loved Vaga Powell himself—hoping against hope—still had respect for her; and to introduce Prince Rupert was like being a party to the accomplishment of her ruin.
“Humph!” grumbled the ex-Lieutenant of the Tower as he looked after them, some little chagrined at being left behind; “High Mightiness thinks he’s going to have it his own way with yellow hair. He won’t though; unless he do as I’ve counselled him. But ’twill come to that—must, before we go back to Bristol—and I shall carry thither my share of the sweet spoils.”