“Liddel!” Mr. Kyd almost screamed. “Then he goes by Carlisle. But Wade’s at Newcastle.”
“That is precisely the damnable folly of it. He is forgoing his chance of an immediate victory over a dotard—and a victory in England. God, sir, His Highness has been ill advised. You see now why I ride north hell-for-leather. I am a soldier of some experience and few of the Prince’s advisers have seen a campaign. My presence may prevent a more fatal error.”
Mr. Kyd’s face was a strange study. Officially it was drawn into lines of tragic melancholy, but there seemed to be satisfaction, even jubilation, behind the despair, and the voice could not escape a tremor of pleased excitement. Alastair, whose life at the French court had made him quick to judge the nuances of feeling, noted this apparent contradiction, and set it down to the eagerness of loyalty which hears at last that the Rubicon is crossed.
“They will march through Lancashire,” said Mr. Kyd, “and look to recruit the gentry. If so, they’re a sturdier breed up yonder than on the Welsh Marches—” He hesitated. “I wonder if you’re right in posting off to the North? Does this news not make a differ? What about Cornbury and Sir Watkin? Will the casting of the die not make up their minds for them? Faith, I think I’ll take another look in at Badminton.”
Alastair saw in the other’s face only an earnest friendliness.
“No, no,” he cried. “Nothing avails but the English victory. We must make certain of that. But do you, Mr. Kyd, press the grandees of the Marches, while I prevent fools and schoolboys from overriding the natural good sense of our Prince.”
Mr. Kyd had recovered his composure, and insisted on filling the rummer again for a toast to fortune. The lines about his eyes were grave, but jollity lurked in the corners of his mouth.
“Then you’ll take the west side of England and make for Warrington? Ay, that’s your quickest road. I’ll draw you an itinerarium, for I whiles travel that gait.” He scribbled a list on a leaf from a pocketbook and flung it to Alastair. “The morn’s night you lie at Flambury, and the third night you’ll be in Chester.”
“Flambury,” Alastair exclaimed. “That takes me too far eastward.”
“No, no. In this country the straight road’s apt to be the long road. There’s good going to Flambury, and the turnpike on to Whitchurch. You’ll lie there at the Dog and Gun, and if you speak my name to the landlord you’ll get the best in his house. … Man, I envy you, for you’ll be among our own folk in a week. My heart goes with you, and here’s to a quick journey.”
Alastair was staring into the fire, and turned more suddenly than the other anticipated. Mr. Kyd’s face was in an instant all rosy goodwill, but for just that one second he was taken by surprise, and something furtive and haggard looked from his eyes. This something Alastair caught, and, as he snuggled between the inn blankets, the memory of it faintly clouded his thoughts, like a breath on a mirror.
V
Chance-Medley
In his dreams Alastair was persistently conscious of Mr. Kyd’s face, which hung like a great sun in that dim landscape. Fresh-coloured and smiling at one moment, it would change suddenly to a thing peaked and hunted, with aversion and fear looking out of narrow eyes. And it mixed itself oddly with another face, a pale face framed in a high coat collar, and adorned with a very sharp nose. It may have been the supper or it may have been the exceeding hardness of the bed, but his sleep was troubled, and he woke with that sense of having toiled furiously which is the consequence of nightmare. He had forgotten the details of his dreams, but one legacy remained from them—a picture of that sharp-nosed face, and the memory of Mr. Kyd’s open countenance as he had surprised it for one second the night before. As he dressed the recollection paled, and presently he laughed at it, for the Mr. Kyd who now presented himself to his memory was so honest and generous and steadfast that the other picture seemed too grotesque even for a caricature.
On descending to breakfast he found, though the day was yet early, that his companion had been up and gone a good hour before. Had he left a message? The landlady said no. What road had he taken? The answer was a reference to a dozen unknown place names, for countryfolk identify a road by the nearest villages it serves. Mr. Kyd’s energy roused his emulation. He breakfasted hastily, and twenty minutes later was on the road.
The mist had cleared, and a still November morn opened mild and grey over a flat landscape. The road ran through acres of unkempt woodlands where spindlewood and briars glowed above russet bracken, and then over long ridges of lea and fallow, where glimpses were to be had of many miles of smoky-brown forest, with now and then a slender wedge of church steeple cutting the low soft skies. Alastair hoped to get a fresh horse at Flambury which would carry him to Chester, and as his present beast had come far, he could not press it for all his impatience. So as he jogged through the morning his thoughts had leisure to wander, and to his surprise he found his mind enjoying an unexpected peace. He was very near the brink of the torrent; let him make the most of these last yards of solid land. The stormy October had hastened the coming of winter, and the autumn scents had in most places yielded to the strong clean fragrance of a bare world. It was the smell he loved, whether he met it in Morvern among the December mosses, or on the downs of Picardy, or in English fields. At other times one smelled herbage and flowers
