Chapter 63 - No Quarter! by Mayne Reid
An Exciting Epistle
“Trevor!” cried the colonel to his troop captain, now also upon his feet, and sharing his excitement; “send out an orderly to summon Harley and our other officers. Perhaps you had best go yourself. You know where to find them, I suppose?”
“I think I do, colonel.”
“Use all despatch. As we’ve made up our minds to this thing, the sooner we’re in the saddle the better.”
The counsel to make haste was little called for. Eustace Trevor itched to be in the saddle, as ever disciple of Saint Hubert on the first day of foxhunting. But just as he was about to step over the threshold of the outer door, he saw a party approaching evidently with the design to enter. Two individuals they were, a man and woman, still within the dim light of the overshadowing houses. For all, he had no difficulty in recognising them. Colossal stature as theirs was far from common; the pair being Rob Wilde and Winny.
He saw them with some surprise—at least the woman. For he had not expected seeing her there. There she was, though; and, as quick intuition told him, her presence might have some bearing on that he was about to issue forth, for he awaited their coming up.
Soon they stood at the door, face to face with him; the sergeant saluting soldier fashion, while the woman curtseyed.
“You, Winifred!” exclaimed the young officer. “I was not aware of your being in Gloucester.”
“Her han’t been in it more’n ten minutes, captain,” said the sergeant, speaking for her. “I ha’ just lets her in at the gate. Her be wantin’ a word wi’ the colonel.”
“She’ll be welcome to that, I’m sure. But first go in yourself and see.”
This was in accordance with military etiquette, indeed regulations; no stranger admitted to the presence of a commanding officer without being announced, and permission given. Rob himself came not under the rule, and was about to pass inside; when a thought occurring to Captain Trevor, the latter turned upon his heel and preceded him.
“Well, Wilde, what is it?” asked Sir Richard, as they entered the room. Eagerly, too, seeing that the features of the big sergeant wore a portentous expression. “Any trouble with your gate-guard?”
“No, Colonel; nothin’ o’ that.”
“Some news come in?”
“Just so, Sir Richard; an’ not o’ the best neyther.”
“Indeed! What news? Whence?”
“Fra Ruardean, or, to speak more partickler, fra Hollymead House.”
Both colonel and captain were now all ears. No spot on the habitable globe had such interest for them as Hollymead House, and from nowhere was intelligence so eagerly desired.
“Tell it, sergeant!” was the impatient command.
“A party o’ the King’s soldiers be quartered there—cavalry.”
“O God?” exclaimed Eustace Trevor, almost in a groan; the knight also showing grievously affected. “How did you get this news?”
“Win ha’ brought it.”
“Win?”
“Yes, colonel. Her be outside the door—waitin’ permission to speak wi’ you. She ha’ been trusted wi’ a letter from the young ladies.”
“Bring her in—instantly!”
“Singular coincidence, Trevor!” said Sir Richard, as the sergeant passed out. “Already at Hollymead! Just what we’ve been fearing!”
“Indeed, so. And all the more reason for our being there too.”
“I wonder who they are. Lingen’s, think you?”
“Rob says they’re quartered there. That would hardly be Lingen’s—so near his own garrison at Goodrich? More like some of Lord Herbert’s Horse from Monmouth. And I hope it may be they.”
“Ah! true; it might be worse. But we’ll soon hear. The cadgeress can tell, no doubt; or it’ll be in the letter.”
The door, reopening, showed the Forest Amazon outside, Rob conducting her in. They could see that she was wet to the waist, her saturated skirt clinging around limbs of noble outline; while her heaving bosom with the heightened colour of her cheeks, told of a journey but just completed, and made in greatest haste.
“You have a letter for me?” said Sir Richard interrogatively, as she stepped inside the room. “Yes, your honner, fra Hollymead.” She spoke with hand raised to her head, as if adjusting one of the plaits of her hair. Instead, she was searching among them for the concealed epistle. Which, soon found, was handed over to him for whom it was intended.
No surprise to Sir Richard at seeing a thing more like curl-paper than letter. It was not the first time for him to receive such, in a similar way; and, straightening it out under the lamplight, he was soon acquainted with its contents.
So far from having the effect of allaying his excitement they but increased it, and he cried out to the sergeant, as he had to the trumpeter,—
“Quick to the men’s quarters, Wilde, and help getting all ready for the route! Hubert’s there by this time, and will have sounded the ‘Assembly.’ Read that, Trevor! There’s something that concerns you,” and he handed the letter to his troop captain.
The sergeant hurried away, leaving Win to be further questioned by the colonel. And while this was going on the young officer perused the epistle, to be affected by it in a similar fashion. It ran thus:—
“Ill tidings, Richard. Prince Rupert here, with his escort—about two hundred. Has just arrived, and intends staying the night; indeed, till father return home, he says. I hope father will not come home, unless you come with him. I’m sure they mean him harm. That horrid man, Lunsford, is in the Prince’s suit; Reginald Trevor too. Winny will tell you more; I fear to lose time in writing. Dear Richard! come if you can.”
So the body of the epistle, with below a postscript, in a different handwriting, well-known to Eustace Trevor:—“Dearest Eustace! we are in danger, I do believe.” The words were significant; and no form of appeal for rescue could have been more pressing. Nor was such needed; neither any urging of haste upon the men thus admonished.
Never was squadron of cavalry sooner in the saddle, after getting orders, than was “Walwyn’s Horse” on that night. In less than twenty minutes later, they went at a gallop through the north-western gate of Gloucester, opened to give them exit; then on along the flooded causeway, riding rowells deep, plunging and flinging the spray-drops high in air, till every man was dripping wet, from the plume in his hat to the spurs upon his heels.