Love and Money Page 4

  3

  So much troubled was he by the condition of affairs he had found at Bellomont that Thomas for all his youth slept ill that night. Joanna and the child Isabella, whom he had ~ thought would prove his greatest evils, seemed as nothing beside the stony Sir John Resmond, who, Thomas felt sure, would ruin his uncle and swallow his land in the most respectable and decorous fashion possible. Sir John’s sneer at Thomas’s interest in the land was clever, for he had made it difficult for the young man to protest against his uncle’s present course without appearing most ignobly calculating. Thomas tossed and turned in his bed as he composed speeches to his uncle: “Leave your land where you will, uncle Richard, but ... Do it for your sake, not for mine . . . Fortunes can be lost at cards. Suppose you should end in penury? . . . Uncle, on bended knee let me implore you . . .” As he reached this point he realised how impossible it would be in fact to utter such sentiments to his uncle, who would be laughing before he had got out more than a couple of words in a noble tone. He sighed, turned over and was trying once more to compose himself to sleep, when he heard Rufus bark in the courtyard below.

  This was surprising, for the mastiff slept usually at his master’s door. Had he slipped out, perhaps, unknown to the serving-men, and was now seeking re-admittance? Was it Thomas’s duty to rise and let him in? Always faithful to his notion of his duty, Thomas raised his head from the pillow and listened. Rufus barked again, and now Sir Richard’s voice bade him angrily be quiet. Thomas sprang up and wrapping himself in his gown went to the window.

  In the courtyard an elderly serving-man held aloft a torch, while Sir Richard, wrapped in a plain dark stuff cloak very different from his usual magnificence, mounted a horse whose trappings were dark too. Rufus sprang about and looked up at his master in joyous anticipation until Simon the serving-man caught his collar and held him, when he whined protestingly. Sir Richard rode off. Rufus gazed after him in sad perplexity, then followed the man into the house with drooping tail.

  Thomas shared the dog’s feeling of disappointment at being left behind. Sir Richard, he knew, was a Justice of the Peace; no doubt he had been summoned abroad thus in the middle of the night to apprehend some malefactor. Thomas would have liked to ride with him on such an exciting errand. It seemed strange, however, that Sir Richard had gone off unattended and in such shabby style, if his errand was official. Could one say In the King’s name with sufficient authority, riding thus? Thomas, half asleep in any case, was so busy puzzling out what his uncle’s business could be that he did not catch the soft knock on his door until it came again. Suddenly hoping that his uncle meant to take him after all, he sprang eagerly to open it.

  Joanna stood on his threshold. The gown of rich green and gold brocade she had thrown about her was, Thomas realised with something of a blush, his uncle’s; the hand in which she held up a taper was almost swallowed in the lace falling from its cuff. In the flickering light her face appeared strange; with a start Thomas perceived that this was because a look of keen distress pulled her features from their usual pleasant shape. She had been weeping; tears lay on her cheeks, her wide mouth quivered.

  “Master Thomas,” she whispered: “I pray you go after him.”

  “Go after my uncle?” Joanna nodded. “Very gladly,” said Thomas joyfully. “Has he sent a message for me, then?”

  Joanna shook her head.

  “But if he has not sent for me,” said Thomas, his face falling: “I fear I should not go—he might not wish—I could not intrude——”

  “It will save him if you go.”

  “Save him?” said Thomas, astounded. The idea of his unaccustomed arm being of service to his uncle, that master of sword-play, was flattering but too improbable. “Is he in danger, then? Why did he ride off alone?”

  “Oh, go, go!” exclaimed Joanna in a tone of anguish. “Do not stay to argue the matter, Master Thomas, go after him. He’ll be less wild if you go. Happen he’ll turn back and not do it at all, so as to keep you out of it.”

  “Out of what?” said Thomas irritably.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, then the tears welled again in Joanna’s eyes, she sighed and turned away.

  “Well, stay then if you will not go,” she said sadly. “I judged you wrongly, Master Thomas. I thought you loved your uncle.”

  “I do, I do!” protested Thomas.

  “Then ride after him quickly. Make him return. Tell him—tell him Isabella is ill,” said Joanna. “He will return if he believes that to be true.”

  Thomas sighed, and his young forehead puckered into frowns. To hope that he, simple and young and foolish as he was, would be able to convince his uncle with a false excuse, or persuade him to return against his will, was quite fantastical, especially when he knew no real reason why he should try; nevertheless Joanna’s tears, her sad eyes, convinced him that try he must.

  “Well, I will go,” he said bad-temperedly. Joanna’s wide smile thanked him. “I will wait here while you dress and guide you down to the stables,” she whispered.

  “There is no need,” said Thomas curtly.

  Nevertheless he was glad of her help as she led him by narrow passages to a side door. Rufus who lay nearby pricked an ear and started half to his feet as they passed, but put his head down on his paws again at the touch of Joanna’s hand. Joanna unbarred the stable door, lit a lantern standing in the straw and held it high while Thomas saddled his mare. His heart was rather sore as he did this, for the mare was not very well bred and his uncle’s keen eye had perceived this instantly on Thomas’s arrival the previous day. What was worse, she was not very well schooled either, and his uncle’s eye had perceived this too. Sir Richard had said nothing and his handsome features had not moved, but somehow his opinion was clear and the ingenuous pleasure Thomas had previously felt in his Bess was destroyed. All that was not Bess’s fault, however, thought Thomas doggedly, it was his own; he felt guilty towards Bess and sorry for her, and buckled her saddle-girths with particular care. Bess turned her head and tried to nuzzle him, as usual.

  “But where am I to go? Which way has my uncle gone?” he asked when Bess was ready. “He has too long a start of me, I shall never catch him. And a better horse,” he added honestly, though the admission pained him.

  “The road to Leeds,” said Joanna. She described the various turnings he must take, with more sense, Thomas admitted, than women usually displayed in such matters.

  “Well,” he said crossly: “If I must go, I must.”

  He led Bess out and mounted.

  Joanna, standing at his stirrup, held up the lantern towards his face.

  “There will be a coach,” she whispered suddenly.

  “A coach!” said Thomas, astonished.

  “Hush!” Joanna gazed round her apprehensively. “Try to bring him back before the coach comes, Master Thomas, I beseech you.”

  “Well,” said Thomas again on a note of exasperated resignation: “I hope you know what all this means, madam, for it is beyond my understanding. However——”

  He rode out of the courtyard and away through the wood.

  Once he had left the Bellomont land behind, to his astonishment he found his spirits rising. A very young moon and a soft starlight relieved the blackness of the night; the season was spring, Thomas was young, he was engaged in a secret enterprise which was bound to prove hazardous and exciting, even if he did not know exactly what it was. Agreeable visions began to float before his mind of himself arriving in the nick of time to rescue his uncle from two abominable ruffians; in imagination he drew his sword, heard the clash of steel on steel, saw the villains run and felt his uncle’s hand clasp his shoulder commendingly. Well done, Tom! I was hard pressed—had it not been for thee, lad! As Bess trotted sturdily along Thomas began to sing happily to himself. Accordingly when his uncle’s voice said suddenly out of the shadows of a clump of hawthorn: “Stand!” Thomas almost fell over poor Bess’s head, for she, having her wits about her, had stopped abruptly.

>   “Uncle Richard!” exclaimed Thomas. Peering between the branches he made out the figure of his uncle, on foot, with his horse standing quietly behind him.

  “Tom! Thou fool! I heard thee a mile away, singing. T’was most unlike a nightingale,” said his uncle savagely. “What dost thou here? Who gave thee leave to follow me?”

  “Joanna,” began Tom feebly, trying to recall his wits to his errand, “Joanna bade me follow you and pray you return—the little Isabella is ailing.”

  “You lie in your teeth, fool!” said Sir Richard. “Is it not enough that I come out here on this bad errand for your sake, but I must have you hanging round my neck the while? Hanging—’tis a very pertinent word, I assure you, Thomas.”

  Thomas gaped at him, unable to utter. Sir Richard paused and seemed to listen.

  “Here’s the coach coming now,” he said. In the silence Thomas heard, very faint and far away, a roll of wheels.

  “Get away with you now,” said Sir Richard in the same savage tone: “Be off! Ride back to Bellomont as quickly as you may, and sleep as soundly as Isabella. ’Tis all you’re fit for.”

  He drew a black vizard from his pocket and settled it about his face.

  There was a pause. In the distance the wheels sounded more clearly. The young moon shone, a slight breeze stirred the hawthorns, and Thomas grew from a lad into a young man.

  “I shall not go till I know what you are about here, uncle Richard,” said Thomas.

  “Can you not guess? I must pay my gaming debts tomorrow, and since you are not willing I should sell more of the land that will be yours, I must find the money elsewhere.”

  “You mean to rob the coach,” said Thomas steadily. “What else? It holds pay for the King’s trained bands.” “You are a colonel of some of the trained bands yourself.”

  “At the moment, Tom, for your sake I am a cutpurse.”

  “That makes me a cutpurse into the bargain.”

  “Well, Tom, that cannot be helped,” said Sir Richard in a kinder tone. “Be off now, and see thou know naught of this night’s work if any question thee. By God! The coach is almost on us. Get back into the bushes. Put on this vizard and for the love of heaven keep still. And keep thy Bess still likewise if it be any way possible.”

  Perhaps it was the last taunt which prevented Thomas from riding away at once as he had a mind to do, away from the coach, away from Sir Richard, away from Bellomont. Instead he jerked at Bess’s head, turned her into the shadow of the hawthorns and drew her up to face the road, with a savage command she had certainly never experienced before at his hands. Surprised, she stood very meek and still, and this silent comment on his previous horsemanship vexed still further his troubled spirit. He put the black vizard about his face. It pricked his nose uncomfortably and this made Thomas even angrier than before; he felt the ill fitting of the mask to be both ludicrous and abominable, like the rest of this occasion.

  Then the coach was but ten yards away, and then but five, and while Thomas with fast-beating heart was wondering how one man on foot held up a coach and pair, suddenly the thing was done. Sir Richard leaped out into the middle of the road beneath the very noses of the horses, threw his arms wide and shouted: “Stand!” in a voice of thunder. The horses, terrified, reared and plunged and screamed and crossed their traces, the driver tumbled headlong to the ground, the coach swung across the road and fell heavily on its side into the ditch. Bess trembled and started, but Thomas held her, grim; Sir Richard’s horse merely gave a mild headshake.

  “Cut the traces, fool!” cried Sir Richard to the coachman, who was rising slowly amid the flying hoofs.

  With a stupefied air the man slowly drew his knife and obeyed, but he had great difficulty in calming and disentangling the maddened animals. Meanwhile Sir Richard stepped to the coach, opened and threw back the door, which lay almost horizontal to the road, and stooped over the aperture. A shrill scream and an oath sounded from within, then Sir Richard stepped back, shaking one hand as if it pained him, and holding in the other a leather bag with an official seal. He was laughing, his teeth showing strangely white below the black vizard, as he turned and ran towards the hawthorns. But just then a man’s hands, somewhat coarse and dirty in the moonlight, appeared clutching the sides of the overturned doorway, and with a great scrambling heave the man himself stumbled out into the road. Scrawny in limb, mottled in face, sandy-haired, and somehow bedraggled, even in this light, thought Thomas, he was clearly not a gentleman, but he did not lack courage, for he was tugging at his sword-hilt.

  “Uncle!” shouted Thomas. “Behind you!”

  Sir Richard threw aside the leather bag, turned and drew his sword; the stranger also at last managed to draw and shouting: “Have at you, thief!” rushed upon him. They fell to combat lustily.

  An hour ago the lad Tom had dreamed of rescuing his uncle in just such an exciting situation, now the young man Thomas Bellomont knew that nothing would anger Sir Richard more than any such clumsy interference on his part. So he sat still and left his uncle to his own devices— Sir Richard’s sword-play was so superior to his opponent’s that the result was never in doubt. Observing presently, however, that the coachman had succeeded in calming his horses and was gazing at the battle doubtfully, it occurred to Thomas that this onlooker might perhaps remember the knife at his belt and set on Sir Richard from the rear. Accordingly he moved Bess forward quietly until her nose touched the man’s shoulder. He started and looked up fearfully. Thomas glared down at him, and no doubt his eyes, gleaming through the slits of the vizard, appeared fierce enough, for the man cringed and dodged away to the other side of his horses.

  Looking back to the fray, Thomas was surprised to see that a third figure was now standing by the overturned coach. It was a woman. Ah! it was she who had screamed, remembered Thomas. Her hair, uncovered and disordered, doubtless by her efforts to climb from the coach, looked very fair in the moonlight, and rings gleamed on the hands with which she held her cloak together. She was following the sword-play intently, though making no move to help Sir Richard’s assailant. In case she should do so, Thomas took Bess nearer. The sandy-haired fellow was now gasping and retreating, and Sir Richard was clearly about to disarm him, when the lady gave a sudden shrill scream. Both the fighters were startled. The sandy-haired man stumbled, his sword flew from his hand; his adversary’s forward lunge, shaken slightly from its aim, took him entirely defenceless, and Sir Richard’s point passed through his body. The man fell, sprawling on his back in the dust, and did not rise. Sir Richard exclaimed and bent over him. “Is he dead?” asked the lady.

  Even in this moment of alarm and horror Thomas could not but note that there seemed a certain pleasurable anticipation in her enquiry. Sir Richard did not answer, but drew his blade carefully from the man’s body, wiped it and sheathed it. Then seizing the leather bag from the road he sprang back into the shadows, mounted his horse and rode off. Thomas, dumbfounded, nevertheless turned Bess and followed him.

  “That fellow is like to die, uncle Richard,” he said coldly when they had galloped half a mile.

  “I know it. See—turn down this lane and turn to the left again and then again—’twill come out on this same road below the coach. Succour those three and set them on their road and bring them with thee to Bellomont.”

  “To Bellomont?” exclaimed Thomas.

  “Aye, to Bellomont. Doth not thine uncle live at Bellomont, to whose house thou, Tom, a very worthy young gentleman, art riding, belated by thy mare’s cast shoe? Is Sir Richard Bellomont not a colonel of the trained bands, a Justice of the Peace? Who could give better entertainment to travellers foully assaulted by highway robbers? Frankly, Thomas,” concluded Sir Richard in a different tone: “I do not wish the man to die.”

  “It is dangerous to bring them to Bellomont, uncle,” faltered Thomas.

  “Will you do my bidding or will you not, Thomas Bellomont?” demanded Sir Richard coldly.

  “I will do it,” sighed Thomas, turning Bess into
the lane.

  “That will be best, Thomas,” said Sir Richard. “And heark’ee, Tom!”

  “Sir?”

  “Take off thy vizard, lad; it is safest in my pocket.”

  4

  It was dawn before the travellers were safely housed at Bellomont.

  Thomas had found the task of conveying them to his uncle’s house extremely disagreeable. The coachman was an honest fellow enough, but such small wit as he owned had been knocked out of him for the time by his fall on the road, and between his stupidity and the fears of the animals, the task of harnessing the horses to the coach again was not an easy one. The wounded man, Captain Miles Brownwood as it appeared, looked most wretchedly ill; stretched out on cushions in the coach, he lay still and silent, his only sign of life the blood which oozed from his wound. His wife on the contrary talked incessantly, even leaning out of the window to confide to Thomas, who rode beside the coach, the most private matters of her married life.

  She told him first of all about the gold which her husband was escorting to Leeds, and the couple of guards who had been left behind that evening at an inn on the road—how and why, Thomas did not enquire too closely, for he could not help suspecting that Sir Richard had planned their absence; a messenger from Bellomont on a good horse could have reached the inn she named after Sir John Resmond’s visit that afternoon. But this was a mere opening to the lady’s discourse; she went on to tell Thomas how she had met Captain Brownwood, how she had married him for pity because he seemed like to run mad for love if she declined, what a wretched life she had of it with him, how he swore, diced, drank, ran after other women and once even offered to beat her, but she could not leave him because of his touching love for her. Some of this account seemed incompatible with the rest, thought Thomas in disgust, nor did he like the manner in which Mistress Rosamond Brownwood— if indeed she was truly wife to Brownwood, which he took leave to doubt—ogled him with her eyes and continually touched the jewels at her breast so as to draw his eyes there. Yet her eyes, light-blue in colour, were large and well-fringed, her bosom full and well-shaped. The hand which lay on the window-ledge was white and smooth (though Thomas doubted the value of the ruby which decked it) and the fair hair was wonderfully fine and silky. But Thomas could not forget how her unguarded exclamation—if it were unguarded—had thrown her husband on Sir Richard’s sword, nor forgive her present careless disregard of poor Brownwood’s parlous condition. Moreover, Thomas presently perceived that amongst Mistress Rosamond’s chatter lurked shrewd questions; he had told her much of Sir Richard before he discovered whither she was tending. When he saw it he was angry, and answered her next question coldly: