Chapter 60 - No Quarter! by Mayne Reid
Quartered upon the Enemy
Night had descended over Hollymead. A dark night, too, though there was no lack of light inside the house or around it. Nearing November the atmosphere had a frosty feel, and great wood fires were burning in the wide chimney places of the reception rooms. Without, in the centre of the courtyard, a very bonfire had been kindled, which sent its red glare and glow to the most distant corner of the inclosure. Around this were seated or standing, in every variety of attitude, such of the common soldiers of the escort as were not upon duty. Carousing, of course. For the rank and file of the Royalist army, especially that portion of it which acted under Rupert, followed the fashion of their officers; and one of the affectations of Cavalierism was to display a superior capacity for indulgence in drink.
About the house they had found the wherewithal to give them a good supper, with more than drink enough to wash it down. For when Monmouth fell into the hands of the Parliamentarians, the Master of Hollymead, thinking it safe, had done something to restock his pastures, as also replenish larder and cellars! And once more these were in the way of getting speedily depleted; the thirsty troopers around the courtyard fire quaffing at free tap from a cask of ale they had rolled out upon the pavement; while they bandied coarse jests, told indecent stories, or sang songs of like character, roaring in chorus.
Inside there was revelry also. Of a less rude kind; still revelry, and coarse enough, considering that they who indulged in it composed the entourage of a Prince. In the dining-hall was it being held, around a table on which stood a varied assortment of bottles and decanters, goblets and glasses. There had been a repast upon it, that same dinner-supper; but the dishes and débris of solids had been removed, and only the drinking materials remained. Nearly a score of guests encircled it, all gentlemen; and all in military uniform—being the officers of the escort—not a man in citizen garb seen among them. For the master of the house was not at the head of his own table, as might have been expected. Instead, shut up in one of the rooms adjacent; its door locked, and a sentry stationed outside!
His daughters were upstairs, in their private apartment, from which they had never come down. Through the window they had seen their father brought back under guard, as a felon; saw it with indignation, but also fear. Greater became the last, when told they could not hold speech with him, or have access to the room in which he was confined. Denied interview with their own father, in their own house! Inhumanity that augured ill for what was to come after.
What this might be they could neither tell nor guess. They even feared to reflect upon it; trembling at every footstep on the stairs. Though no key had been turned upon them, nor sentry set at their door, they were as much imprisoned as their father. For the Prince’s retinue of servants filled the house, tramping and roaming about everywhere, and bullying the family domestics. It was not safe to go out among them; and the young ladies had locked themselves up, dreading insult, if not absolute outrage. Even Gwenthian dared not trust herself downstairs, and shared their confinement.
What did it all mean? Why such change in the behaviour of the Prince, so late pretending amiability? For his people must have sanction, or they would not be so acting.
The explanation was simple, withal. Shortly after Rupert’s arrival at Hollymead, a courier, who had followed him from Monmouth, brought tidings of another Royalist reverse—Chepstow, with its castle, taken or closely beleaguered. Exasperated by the intelligence, he no longer resisted the wicked proposals of Lunsford, but gave willing assent to them. And now, having thrown off the mask, he had determined on taking the whole Powell family back with him to Bristol. As his prisoner there he could do with the “bit of saucy sweetness” as it might please him; as he had done with many other unfortunate women whom the chances of war had brought within his wanton embrace.
It had been all settled, save some details about the departure from Hollymead, the time, and the return route. These were now being discussed between him and the commanding officer of his escort, as they sate at a side table to which they had temporarily withdrawn, to be out of earshot, of the others.
“Should we remain here for the night, mein Colonel, or make back to Monmouth? We can get there before midnight.”
“That we could, easily enough, your Highness. But why go by Monmouth at all?”
“Why not?”
“There are two reasons against it, Prince. Both good ones.”
“Give them, Sir Thomas.”
“If it be true that Chepstow’s lost to us, there may be a difficulty in our crossing the Wye down there. Or getting over to the Aust passage of the Severn, with such a weak force as attends your Highness.”
“Gott! yes; I perceive that. But what’s your other reason against Monmouth way?”
“A more delicate one. To pass through that town with such a captive train as your Highness will have might give tongue for scandal. The venerable Marquis of Worcester is rather squeamish; besides not being your best friend. You know that, Prince?”
“I do know it, and will some day make him sorry for it, the old Papist hypocrite. But what other route would you have us take?”
“Down through the Forest direct, and across the Severn, either at Newnham or Westbury. There’s a ferry at both places, with horse-boats enough to take us all over in a trip or two. We may reach Berkeley Castle before daylight; where, if it be your Highness’s pleasure to lie up for the day, you could enter Bristol on the following night without all the world being the wiser as to the sort of prisoners we carried in.”
“Egad! your reasons are good. I’m inclined to follow your advice, and return by the route you speak of. Are you well acquainted with it, mein Colonel?”
“Reasonably well, your Highness. But Captain Trevor knows it better than I. He was longer with Sir John Wintour, and is familiar with every crook and turn of the Forest roads in that quarter. There can be no danger of our going astray.”
“But the night’s dark as pitch. So one has just told me.”
“True it is now, your Highness. But there’ll be a moon this side midnight, and that will be time enough to start. We can make Berkeley before morning—prisoners, crossing the Severn, and all delays notwithstanding. Next night your Highness may sleep in your own bed within the walls of Bristol Castle, with a sweet creature to share it—whom I need not designate by name.”
“She shall share it!” rejoined the Royal reprobate, in reckless, but determined tone, his wicked passions fired by the wine he had been drinking. “And we go that way, Colonel. So see that all be ready for the route soon as the moon shows her sweet face. Meanwhile, let us back to our comrades and be merry.”
Saying which he returned to the chair he had vacated at the head of the table, the other along with him; then, grasping a filled goblet, he called out the Cavalier’s orthodox sentiment “The Wenches!” adding,—
“Colonel Lunsford will respond with a song, gentlemen!”
Which the Colonel did; giving that they liked best, with a chorus they could all join in,—
“We’ll drink, drink;
And our goblets clink,
Quaffing the blood-red wine.
The wenches we’ll toast,
And the Roundheads we’ll roast,
The Croppies and all their kind.”
The coarse refrain, with the ribald jests that followed it, could be heard all over the house, reaching the ears of its imprisoned owner. Even those of his daughters, more distant, did not escape being offended by them. No wonder at both having in their hearts, if not on their lips, the prayer,—“God speed Win upon her errand!”