Chapter 20 The Tavern Knight by Rafael Sabatini
THE CONVERTED HOGAN
Night black and impenetrable had set in ere Kenneth and his escort clattered over the greasy stones of Waltham's High Street, and drew up in front of the Crusader Inn.
The door stood wide and hospitable, and a warm shaft of light fell from it and set a glitter upon the wet street. Avoiding the common-room, the sergeant led Kenneth through the inn-yard, and into the hostelry by a side entrance. He urged the youth along a dimly-lighted passage. On a door at the end of this he knocked, then, lifting the latch, he ushered Kenneth into a roomy, oak-panelled chamber.
At the far end a huge fire burnt cheerfully, and with his back to it, his feet planted wide apart upon the hearth, stood a powerfully built man of medium height, whose youthful face and uprightness of carriage assorted ill with the grey of his hair, pronouncing that greyness premature. He seemed all clad in leather, for where his jerkin stopped his boots began. A cuirass and feathered headpiece lay in a corner, whilst on the table Kenneth espied a broad-brimmed hat, a huge sword, and a brace of pistols.
As the boy's eyes came back to the burly figure on the hearth, he was puzzled by a familiar, intangible something in the fellow's face.
He was racking his mind to recall where last he had seen it, when with slightly elevated eyebrows and a look of recognition in his somewhat prominent blue eyes.
“Soul of my body,” exclaimed the man in surprise, “Master Stewart, as I live.”
“Stuart!” cried both sergeant and trooper in a gasp, starting forward to scan their prisoner's face.
At that the burly captain broke into a laugh.
“Not the young man Charles Stuart,” said he; “no, no. Your captive is none so precious. It is only Master Kenneth Stewart, of Bailienochy.”
“Then it is not even our man,” grumbled the soldier.
“But Stewart is not the name he gave,” cried the sergeant. “Jasper Blount he told me he was called. It seems that after all we have captured a malignant, and that I was well advised to bring him to you.”
The captain made a gesture of disdain. In that moment Kenneth recognized him. He was Harry Hogan—the man whose life Galliard had saved in Penrith.
“Bah, a worthless capture, Beddoes,” he said.
“I know not that,” retorted the sergeant. “He carries papers which he states are from Joseph Ashburn, of Castle Marleigh, to Colonel Pride. Colonel Pride's name is on the package, but may not that be a subterfuge? Why else did he say he was called Blount?”
Hogan's brows were of a sudden knit.
“Faith, Beddoes, you are right. Remove his sword and search him.”
Calmly Kenneth suffered them to carry out this order. Inwardly he boiled at the delay, and cursed himself for having so needlessly given the name of Blount. But for that, it was likely Hogan would have straightway dismissed him. He cheered himself with the thought that after all they would not long detain him. Their search made, and finding nothing upon him but Ashburn's letter, surely they would release him.
But their search was very thorough. They drew off his boots, and well-nigh stripped him naked, submitting each article of his apparel to a careful examination. At length it was over, and Hogan held Ashburn's package, turning it over in his hands with a thoughtful expression.
“Surely, sir, you will now allow me to proceed,” cried Kenneth. “I assure you the matter is of the greatest urgency, and unless I am in London by midnight I shall be too late.”
“Too late for what?” asked Hogan.
“I—I don't know.”
“Oh?” The Irishman laughed unpleasantly. Colonel Pride and he were on anything but the best of terms. The colonel knew him for a godless soldier of fortune bound to the Parliament's cause by no interest beyond that of gain; and, himself a zealot, Colonel Pride had with distasteful frequency shown Hogan the quality of his feelings towards him. That Hogan was not afraid of him, was because it was not in Hogan's nature to be afraid of anyone. But he realized at least that he had cause to be, and at the present moment it occurred to him that it would be passing sweet to find a flaw in the old Puritan's armour. If the package were harmless his having opened it was still a matter that the discharge of his duty would sanction. Thus he reasoned; and he resolved to break the seal and make himself master of the contents of that letter.
Hogan's unpleasant laugh startled Kenneth. It suggested to him that perhaps, after all, his delay was by no means at an end; that Hogan suspected him of something—he could not think of what.
Then in a flash an idea came to him.
“May I speak to you privately for a moment, Captain Hogan?” he inquired in such a tone of importance—imperiousness, almost—that the Irishman was impressed by it. He scented disclosure.
“Faith, you may if you have aught to tell me,” and he signed to Beddoes and his companion to withdraw.
“Now, Master Hogan,” Kenneth began resolutely as soon as they were alone, “I ask you to let me go my way unmolested. Too long already has the stupidity of your followers detained me here unjustly. That I reach London by midnight is to me a matter of the gravest moment, and you shall let me.”
“Soul of my body, Mr. Stewart, what a spirit you have acquired since last we met.”
“In your place I should leave our last meeting unmentioned, master turncoat.”
The Irishman's eyebrows shot up.
“By the Mass, young cockerel, I mislike your tone—”
“You'll have cause to dislike it more if you detain me.” He was desperate now. “What would your saintly, crop-eared friends say if they knew as much of your past history as I do?”
“Tis a matter for conjecture,” said Hogan, humouring him.
“How think you would they welcome the story of the roystering rake and debauchee who deserted the army of King Charles because they were about to hang him for murder?”
“Ah! how, indeed?” sighed Hogan.
“What manner of reputation, think you, that for a captain of the godly army of the Commonwealth?”
“A vile one, truly,” murmured Hogan with humility.
“And now, Mr. Hogan,” he wound up loftily, “you had best return me that package, and be rid of me before I sow mischief enough to bring you a crop of hemp.”
Hogan stared at the lad's flushed face with a look of whimsical astonishment, and for a brief spell there was silence between them. Slowly then, with his eyes still fixed upon Kenneth's, the captain unsheathed a dagger. The boy drew back, with a sudden cry of alarm. Hogan vented a horse-laugh, and ran the blade under the seal of Ashburn's letter.
“Be not afraid, my man of threats,” he said pleasantly. “I have no thought of hurting you—leastways, not yet.” He paused in the act of breaking the seal. “Lest you should treasure uncomfortable delusions, dear Master Stewart, let me remind you that I am an Irishman—not a fool. Do you conceive my fame to be so narrow a thing that when I left the beggarly army of King Charles for that of the Commonwealth, I did not realize how at any moment I might come face to face with someone who had heard of my old exploits, and would denounce me? You do not find me masquerading under an assumed name. I am here, sir, as Harry Hogan, a sometime dissolute follower of the Egyptian Pharaoh, Charles Stuart; an erstwhile besotted, blinded soldier in the army of the Amalekite, a whilom erring malignant, but converted by a crowning mercy into a zealous, faithful servant of Israel. There were vouchsafings and upliftings, and the devil knows what else, when this stray lamb was gathered to the fold.”
He uttered the words with a nasal intonation, and a whimsical look at Kenneth.
“Now, Mr. Stewart, tell them what you will, and they will tell you yet more in return, to show you how signally the light of grace hath been shed over me.”
He laughed again, and broke the seal. Kenneth, crestfallen and abashed, watched him, without attempting further interference. Of what avail?
“You had been better advised, young sir, had you been less hasty and anxious. It is a fatal fault of youth's, and one of which nothing but time—if, indeed, you live—will cure you. Your anxiety touching this package determines me to open it.”
Kenneth sneered at the man's conclusions, and, shrugging his shoulders, turned slightly aside.
“Perchance, master wiseacres, when you have read it, you will appreciate how egotism may also lead men into fatal errors. Haply, too, you will be able to afford Colonel Pride some satisfactory reason for tampering with his correspondence.”
But Hogan heard him not. He had unfolded the letter, and at the first words he beheld, a frown contracted his brows. As he read on the frown deepened, and when he had done, an oath broke from his lips. “God's life!” he cried, then again was silent, and so stood a moment with bent head. At last he raised his eyes, and let them rest long and searchingly upon Kenneth, who now observed him in alarm.
“What—what is it?” the lad asked, with hesitancy.
But Hogan never answered. He strode past him to the door, and flung it wide.
“Beddoes!” he called. A step sounded in the passage, and the sergeant appeared. “Have you a trooper there?”
“There is Peter, who rode with me.”
“Let him look to this fellow. Tell him to set him under lock and bolt here in the inn until I shall want him, and tell him that he shall answer for him with his neck.”
Kenneth drew back in alarm.
“Sir—Captain Hogan—will you explain?”
“Marry, you shall have explanations to spare before morning, else I'm a fool. But have no fear, for we intend you no hurt,” he added more softly. “Take him away, Beddoes; then return to me here.”
When Beddoes came back from consigning Kenneth into the hands of his trooper, he found Hogan seated in the leathern arm-chair, with Ashburn's letter spread before him on the table.
“I was right in my suspicions, eh?” ventured Beddoes complacently.
“You were more than right, Beddoes, you were Heaven-inspired. It is no State matter that you have chanced upon, but one that touches a man in whom I am interested very nearly.”
The sergeant's eyes were full of questions, but Hogan enlightened him no further.
“You will ride back to your post at once, Beddoes,” he commanded. “Should Lord Oriel fall into your hands, as we hope, you will send him to me. But you will continue to patrol the road, and demand the business of all comers. I wish one Crispin Galliard, who should pass this way ere long, detained, and brought to me. He is a tall, lank man—”
“I know him, sir,” Beddoes interrupted. “The Tavern Knight they called him in the malignant army—a rakehelly, dissolute brawler. I saw him in Worcester when he was taken after the fight.”
Hogan frowned. The righteous Beddoes knew overmuch. “That is the man,” he answered calmly. “Go now, and see that he does not ride past you. I have great and urgent need of him.”
Beddoes' eyes were opened in surprise.
“He is possessed of valuable information,” Hogan explained. “Away with you, man.”
When alone, Harry Hogan turned his arm-chair sideways towards the fire. Then, filling himself a pipe—for in his foreign campaigning he had acquired the habit of tobacco-smoking—he stretched his sinewy legs across a second chair, and composed himself for meditation. An hour went by; the host looked in to see if the captain required anything. Another hour sped on, and the captain dozed.
He awoke with a start. The fire had burned low, and the hands of the huge clock in the corner pointed to midnight. From the passage came to him the sound of steps and angry voices.
Before Hogan could rise, the door was flung wide, and a tall, gaunt man was hustled across the threshold by two soldiers. His head was bare, and his hair wet and dishevelled. His doublet was torn and his shoulder bleeding, whilst his empty scabbard hung like a lambent tail behind him.
“We have brought him, captain,” one of the men announced.
“Aye, you crop-eared, psalm-whining cuckolds, you've brought me, d—n you,” growled Sir Crispin, whose eyes rolled fiercely.
As his angry glance lighted upon Hogan's impressive face, he abruptly stemmed the flow of invective that rushed to his lips.
The Irishman rose, and looked past him at the troopers. “Leave us,” he commanded shortly.
He remained standing by the hearth until the footsteps of his men had died away, then he crossed the chamber, passed Crispin without a word, and quietly locked the door. That done, he turned a friendly smile on his tanned face—and holding out his hand:
“At last, Cris, it is mine to thank you and to repay you in some measure for the service you rendered me that night at Penrith.”