Chapter 13 Mistress Wilding by Rafael Sabatini
“PRO RELIGIONE ET LIBERTATE”
The evening was far advanced when Mr. Wilding and his two companions descended to Uplyme Common from the heights whence as they rode they had commanded a clear view of the fair valley of the Axe, lying now under a thin opalescent veil of evening mist.
They had paused at Ilminster for fresh horses, and there Wilding had paid a visit to one of his agents from whom he had procured a hundred guineas. Thence they had come south at a sharp pace, and with little said. Wilding was moody and thoughtful, filled with chagrin at this unconscionable rashness of the man upon whom all his hopes were centred. As they cantered briskly across Uplyme Common in the twilight they passed several bodies of countrymen, all heading for the town, and one group sent up a shout of “God save the Protestant Duke!” as they rode past him.
“Amen to that,” muttered Mr. Wilding grimly, “for I am afraid that no man can.”
In the narrow lane by Hay Farm a horseman, going in the opposite direction, passed them at the gallop; but they had met several such since leaving Ilminster, for indeed the news was spreading fast, and the whole countryside was alive with messengers, some on foot and some on horseback, but all hurrying as if their lives depended on their haste.
They made their way to the Market-Place where Monmouth's declaration—that remarkable manifesto from the pen of Ferguson—had been read some hours before. Thence, having ascertained where His Grace was lodged, they made their way to the George Inn.
In Coombe Street they found the crowd so dense that they could but with difficulty open out a way for their horses through the human press. Not a window but was open, and thronged with sight-seers—mostly women, indeed, for the men were in the press below. On every hand resounded the cries of “A Monmouth! A Monmouth! The Protestant Religion! Religion and Liberty,” which latter were the words inscribed on the standard Monmouth had set up that evening on the Church Cliffs.
In truth, Wilding was amazed at what he saw, and said as much to Trenchard. So pessimistic had been his outlook that he had almost expected to find the rebellion snuffed out by the time they reached Lyme-of-the-King. What had the authorities been about that they had permitted Monmouth to come ashore, or had Vallancey's information been wrong in the matter of the numbers that accompanied the Protestant Champion? Wilding's red coat attracted some attention. In the dusk its colour was almost all that could be discerned of it.
“Here's a militia captain for the Duke!” cried one, and others took up the cry, and if it did nothing else it opened a way for them through that solid human mass and permitted them to win through to the yard of the George Inn. They found the spacious quadrangle thronged with men, armed and unarmed, and on the steps stood a tall, well-knit, soldierly man, his hat rakishly cocked, about whom a crowd of townsmen and country fellows were pressing with insistence. At a glance Mr. Wilding recognized Captain Venner—raised to the rank of colonel by Monmouth on the way from Holland.
Trenchard dismounted, and taking a distracted stable-boy by the arm, bade him see to their horses. The fellow endeavoured to swing himself free of the other's tenacious grasp.
“Let me go,” he cried. “I am for the Duke!”
“And so are we, my fine rebel,” answered Trenchard, holding fast.
“Let me go,” the lout insisted. “I am going to enlist.”
“And so you shall when you have stabled our nags. See to him, Vallancey; he is brainsick with the fumes of war.”
The fellow protested, but Trenchard's way was brisk and short; and so, protesting still, he led away their cattle in the end, Vallancey going with him to see that he performed this last duty as a stable-boy ere he too became a champion militant of the Protestant Cause. Trenchard sped after Wilding, who was elbowing his way through the yokels about the steps. The glare of a newly lighted lamp from the doorway fell full upon his long white face as he advanced, and Venner espied and recognized him.
“Mr. Wilding!” he cried, and there was a glad ring in his voice, for though cobblers, tailors, deserters from the militia, pot-boys, stable-boys, and shuffling yokels had been coming in in numbers during the past few hours since the Declaration had been read, this was the first gentleman that arrived to welcome Monmouth. The soldier stretched out a hand to grasp the newcomer's. “His Grace will see you this instant, not a doubt of it.” He turned and called down the passage. “Cragg!” A young man in a buff coat came forward, and to him Venner delivered Wilding and Trenchard that he might announce them to His Grace.
In the room that had been set apart for him abovestairs, Monmouth still sat at table. He had just supped, with but an indifferent appetite, so fevered was he by the events of his landing. He was excited with hope—inspired by the readiness with which the men of Lyme and its neighbourhood had flocked to his banner—and fretted by anxiety that none of the gentry of the vicinity should yet have followed the example of the meaner folk, in answer to the messages dispatched at dawn from Seaton. The board at which he sat was still cumbered with some glasses and platters and vestiges of his repast. Below him on his right sat Ferguson—that prince of plotters—very busy with pen and ink, his keen face almost hidden by his great periwig; opposite were Lord Grey, of Werke, and Andrew Fletcher, of Saltoun, whilst, standing at the foot of the table barely within the circle of candlelight from the branch on the polished oak, was Nathaniel Wade, the lawyer, who had fled to Holland on account of his alleged complicity in the Rye House plot and was now returned a major in the Duke's service. Erect and soldierly of figure, girt with a great sword and with the butt of a pistol protruding from his belt, he had little the air of a man whose methods of contention were forensic.
“You understand, then, Major Wade,” His Grace was saying, his voice pleasant and musical. “It is decided that the guns had best be got ashore forthwith and mounted.”
Wade bowed. “I shall set about it at once, Your Grace. I shall not want for help. Have I Your Grace's leave to go?”
Monmouth nodded, and as Wade passed out, Ensign Cragg entered to announce Mr. Wilding and Mr. Trenchard. The Duke rose to his feet, his glance suddenly brightening. Fletcher and Grey rose with him; Ferguson paid no heed, absorbed in his task, which he industriously continued.
“At last!” exclaimed the Duke. “Admit them, sir.”
When they entered, Wilding coming first, his hat under his arm, the Duke sprang to meet him, a tall young figure, lithe and slender as a blade of steel, and of a steely strength for all his slimness. He was dressed in a suit of purple that became him marvellously well, and on his breast a star of diamonds flashed and smouldered like a thing of fire. He was of an exceeding beauty of face, wherein he mainly favoured that “bold, handsome woman” that was his mother, without, however, any of his mother's insipidity; fine eyes, a good nose, straight and slender, and a mouth which, if sensual and indicating a lack of strength, was beautifully shaped. His chin was slightly cleft, the shape of his face a delicate oval, framed now in the waving masses of his brown wig. Some likeness to his late Majesty was also discernible, in spite of the wart, out of which his uncle James made so much capital.
There was a slight flush on his cheeks, an added lustre in his eye, as he took Wilding's hand and shook it heartily before Wilding had time to kiss His Grace's.
“You are late,” he said, but there was no reproach in his voice. “We had looked to find you here when we came ashore. You had my letter?”
“I had not, Your Grace,” answered Wilding, very grave. “It was stolen.”
“Stolen?” cried the Duke, and behind him Grey pressed forward, whilst even Ferguson paused in his writing to raise his piercing eyes and listen.
“It is no matter,” Wilding reassured him. “Although stolen, it has but gone to Whitehall to-day, when it can add little to the news that is already on its way there.”
The Duke laughed softly, with a flash of white teeth, and looked past Wilding at Trenchard. Some of the light faded out of his eyes. “They told me Mr. Trenchard...” he began, when Wilding, half turning to his friend, explained.
“This is Mr. Nicholas Trenchard—John Trenchard's cousin.
“I bid you welcome, sir,” said the Duke, very agreeably, “and I trust your cousin follows you.”
“Alas,” said Trenchard, “my cousin is in France,” and in a few brief words he related the matter of John Trenchard's home-coming on his acquittal and the trouble there had been connected with it.
The Duke received the news in silence. He had expected good support from old Speke's son-in-law. Indeed, there was a promise that when he came, John Trenchard would bring fifteen hundred men from Taunton. He took a turn in the room deep in thought, and there was a pause until Ferguson, rubbing his great Roman nose, asked suddenly had Mr. Wilding seen the Declaration. Mr. Wilding had not, and thereupon the plotting parson, who was proud of his composition, would have read it to him there and then, but that Grey sourly told him the matter would keep, and that they had other things to discuss with Mr. Wilding.
This the Duke himself confirmed, stating that there were matters on which he would be glad to have their opinion.
He invited the newcomers to draw chairs to the table; glasses were called for, and a couple of fresh bottles of Canary went round the board. The talk was desultory for a few moments, whilst Wilding and Trenchard washed the dust from their throats; then Monmouth broke the ice by asking them bluntly what they thought of his coming thus, earlier than was at first agreed.
Wilding never hesitated in his reply. “Frankly, Your Grace,” said he, “I like it not at all.”
Fletcher looked up sharply, his clear intelligent eyes full upon Wilding's calm face, his countenance expressing as little as did Wilding's. Ferguson seemed slightly taken aback. Grey's thick lips were twisted in a sneering smile.
“Faith,” said the latter with elaborate sarcasm, “in that case it only remains for us to ship again, heave anchor, and back to Holland.”
“It is what I should advise,” said Wilding slowly and quietly, “if I thought there was a chance of my advice being taken.” He had a calm, almost apathetic way of uttering startling things which rendered them doubly startling. The sneer seemed to freeze on Lord Grey's lips; Fletcher continued to stare, but his eyes had grown more round; Ferguson scowled darkly. The Duke's boyish face—it was still very youthful despite his six-and-thirty years—expressed a wondering consternation. He looked at Wilding, and from Wilding to the others, and his glance seemed to entreat them to suggest an answer to him. It was Grey at last who took the matter up.
“You shall explain your meaning, sir, or we must hold you a traitor,” he exclaimed.
“King James does that already,” answered Wilding with a quiet smile.
“D'ye mean the Duke of York?” rumbled Ferguson's Scottish accent with startling suddenness, and Monmouth nodded approval of the correction. “If ye mean that bloody papist and fratricide, it were well so to speak of him. Had ye read the Declaration...”
But Fletcher cropped his speech in mid-growth. He was ever a short-tempered man, intolerant of irrelevancies.
“It were well, perhaps,” said he, his accent abundantly proclaiming him a fellow countryman of Ferguson's, “to keep to the matter before us. Mr. Wilding, no doubt, will state the reasons that exist, or that he fancies may exist, for giving advice which is hardly worthy of the cause to which he stands committed.”
“Aye, Fletcher,” said Monmouth, “there is sense in you. Tell us what is in your mind, Mr. Wilding.”
“It is in my mind, Your Grace, that this invasion is rash, premature, and ill-advised.”
“Odds life!” cried Grey, and he swung angrily round fully to face the Duke, the nostrils of his heavy nose dilating. “Are we to listen to this milksop prattle?”
Nick Trenchard, who had hitherto been silent, cleared his throat so noisily that he drew all eyes to himself.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Wilding pursued, his air calm and dignified, and gathering more dignity from the circumstance that he proceeded as if there had been no interruption, “when I had the honour of conferring with you at The Hague two months ago, it was agreed that you should spend the summer in Sweden—away from politics and scheming, leaving the work of preparation to your accredited agents here. That work I have been slowly but surely pushing forward. It was not to be hurried; men of position are not to be won over in a day; men with anything to lose need some guarantee that they are not wantonly casting their possessions to the winds. By next spring, as was agreed, all would have been ready. Delay could not have hurt you. Indeed, with every day by which you delayed your coming you did good service to your cause, you strengthened its prospects of success; for every day the people's burden of oppression and persecution grows more heavy, and the people's temper more short; every day, by the methods that he is pursuing, King James brings himself into deeper hatred. This hatred is spreading. It was the business of myself and those others to help it on, until from the cottage of the ploughman the infection of anger should have spread to the mansion of the squire. Had Your Grace but given me time, as I entreated you, and as you promised me, you might have marched to Whitehall with scarce the shedding of a drop of blood; had Your Grace but waited until we were ready, England would have so trembled at your landing that your uncle's throne would have toppled over 'neath the shock. As it is...” He shrugged his shoulders, sighed and spread his hands, leaving his sentence uncompleted.
Monmouth sat sobered by these sober words; the intoxication that had come to him from the little measure of success that had attended the opening of the listing on Church Cliffs, deserted him now; he saw the thing stark and in its true proportions, and not even the shouting of the folk in the streets below, crying his name and acclaiming him their champion, served to lighten the gloom that Wilding's words cast like a cloud over his volatile heart. Alas, poor Monmouth! He was ever a weathercock, and even as Wilding's words seemed to strike the courage out of him, so did Grey's short contemptuous answer restore it.
“As it is, we'll thrust that throne over with our hands,” said he after a moment's pause.
“Aye,” cried Monmouth. “We'll do it, God helping us!”
“Our dependence and trust is in the Lord of Hosts, in Whose Name we go forth,” boomed the voice of Ferguson, quoting from his precious Declaration. “The Lord will do that which seemeth good unto Him.”
“An unanswerable argument,” said Wilding, smiling. “But the Lord, I am told by the gentlemen of your cloth, works in His own good time, and my fears are all lest, finding us unprepared of ourselves, the Lord's good time be not yet.”
“Out on ye, sir,” cried Ferguson. “Ye want for reverence!”
“Common sense will serve us better at the moment,” answered Wilding with a touch of sharpness. He turned to the frowning and perplexed Duke—whose mind was being tossed this way and that, like a shuttlecock upon the battledore of these men's words. “Your Grace,” he said, “forgive me that I speak it if hear it you will, or forbid me to say it if your resolve is unalterable in this matter.”
“It is unalterable,” answered Grey for the Duke.
But Monmouth gently overruled him for once.
“Nevertheless, speak by all means, Mr. Wilding. Whatever you may say, you need have no fear that any of us can doubt your good intentions to ourselves.”
“I thank Your Grace. What I have to say is but a repetition of the first words I uttered at this table. I would urge Your Grace even now to retreat.”
“What? Are you mad?” It was Lord Grey who asked the impatient question.
“I doubt it's over-late for that,” said Fletcher slowly.
“I am not so sure,” answered Wilding. “But I am sure that to attempt it were the safer course—the surer in the end. I myself may not linger to push forward the task of stirring up the people, for I am already something more than under suspicion. But there are others who will remain to carry on the work after I have departed with Your Grace, if Your Grace thinks well. From the Continent by correspondence we can mature our plans. In a twelvemonth things will be very different, and we can return with confidence.”
Grey shrugged and turned his shoulder upon Wilding, but said no word. There was silence of some few moments. Andrew Fletcher leaned his elbow on the table and took his brow in his great bony hand. Wilding's words seemed an echo of those he himself had spoken a week or two ago, only to be overruled by Grey, who swayed the Duke more than did any other—and that he did not do so of fell purpose, and seeking deliberately to work Monmouth's ruin, no man will ever be able to say with certainty.
Ferguson rose, a tall, spare, stooping figure, and smote the board with his fist. “It is a good cause,” he cried, “and God will not leave us unless we leave Him.”
“Henry the Seventh landed with fewer men than did Your Grace,” said Grey, “and he succeeded.”
“True,” put in Fletcher. “But Henry the Seventh was sure of the support of not a few of the nobility, which does not seem to be our case.”
Ferguson and Grey stared at him in horror; Monmouth sat biting his lip, more bewildered than thoughtful.
“O man of little faith!” roared Ferguson in a passion. “Are ye to be swayed like a straw in the wind?”
“I am no' swayed. Ye ken this was ever my own view. I feel, in my heart, that what Mr. Wilding says is right. It is but what I said myself, and Captain Matthews with me, before we embarked upon this expedition. We were in danger of ruining all by a needless precipitancy. Nay, man, never stare so,” he said to Grey, “I am in it now and I am no' the man to draw back, nor do I go so far as Mr. Wilding in counselling such a course. We've set our hands to the plough; let us go forward in God's name. Yet I would remind you that what Mr. Wilding says is true. Had we waited until next year, we had found the usurper's throne tottering under him, and, on our landing, it would have toppled o'er of itself.”
“I have said already that we'll overset it with our hands,” Grey answered.
“How many hands have you?” asked a new voice, a crisp, discordant voice, much steeped in mockery. It was Nick Trenchard's.
“Have we another here of Mr. Wilding's mind?” cried Grey, staring at him.
“I am seldom of any other,” answered Trenchard.
“We shall no' want for hands,” Ferguson assured him. “Had ye arrived earlier ye might have seen how readily men enlisted.” He had risen and approached the window as he spoke; he pulled it open, to let in the full volume of sound that rose from the street below.
“A Monmouth! A Monmouth!” voices shouted.
Ferguson struck a theatrical posture, one long, lean arm stretched outward from the shoulder.
“Ye hear them, sirs,” he cried, and there was a gleam of triumph in his eye. “That is answer enough to those who want for faith, to the feckless ones that think the Lord will abandon those that have set out to serve Him,” and his glance comprehended Fletcher, Trenchard, and Wilding.
The Duke stirred in his chair, stretched a hand for the bottle and filled a glass. His mercurial spirits were rising again. He smiled at Wilding.
“I think you are answered, sir,” said he; “and I hope that like Fletcher there, who shared your doubts, you will come to agree that since we have set our hands to the plough we must go forward.”
“I have said that which I had it on my conscience to say. Your Grace may have found me over-ready with my counsel; at least you shall find me no less ready with my sword.”
“Odso! That is better.” Grey applauded, and his manner was almost pleasant.
“I never doubted it, Mr. Wilding,” His Grace replied; “but I should like to hear you say that you are convinced—at least in part,” and he waved his hand towards the window. It was almost as if he pleaded for encouragement. In common with most men who came in contact with Wilding, he had felt the latent force of this man's nature, the strength that was hidden under that calm surface, and the acuteness of the judgment that must be wedded to it. He longed to have the word of such a man that his enterprise was not as desperate as Wilding had seemed at first to paint it. But Wilding made no concession to hopes or desires when he dealt with facts.
“Men will flock to you, no doubt; persecution has wearied many of the country-folk, and they are ready for revolt. But they are all untrained in arms; they are rustics, not soldiers. If any of the men of position were to rally round your standard they would bring the militia, and others in their train; they would bring arms, horses, and money, all of which Your Grace must be sorely needing.”
“They will come,” answered the Duke.
“Some, no doubt,” Wilding agreed; “but had it been next year, I would have answered for it that it would have been no handful had ridden in to welcome you. Scarce a gentleman of Devon or Somerset, of Dorset or Hampshire, of Wiltshire or Cheshire but would have hastened to your side.”
“They will come as it is,” the Duke repeated with an almost womanish insistence, persisting in believing what he hoped, all evidence apart.
The door opened and Ensign Cragg made his appearance. “May it please Your Grace,” he announced, “Mr. Battiscomb has just arrived, and asks will Your Grace receive him to-night?”
“Battiscomb!” cried the Duke. Again his cheek flushed and his eye sparkled. “Aye, in Heaven's name, show him up.”
“And may the Lord refresh us with good tidings!” prayed Ferguson devoutly.
Monmouth turned to Wilding. “It is the agent I sent ahead of me from Holland to stir up the gentry from here to the Mersey.”
“I know,” said Wilding; “we conferred together some weeks since.”
“Now you shall see how idle are your fears,” the Duke promised him.
And Wilding, who was better informed on that score, kept silence.