Honest John, when I went into the kitchen, was drinking his own health before the fire, which was not an unwelcome sight even in July, for the night was somewhat chilly. There was another man seated on the long settle whom I did not know, but who seemed from his appearance to be a cattle-drover that had put up there for the night.
“God save us, Master Dale!” said John Sanderson. “Is it really you, and what are you doing here at this time o’ night? Surely not from York market in these troublous times? Dear heart, the sight of wounded men that we have seen this day! and ’tis said that on the Sherburn road they be twice as thick.”
“Ten times as thick, John, and that is why I chose this road. But hark ye, John, my horse has gone dead lame and can go no further. ’Tis a great pity, for I would gladly have got home as quick as may be.”
“Let me see him,” said John, and followed me into the yard. “ ’Tis not the best of times to put a horse into our stables, Master Will,” he continued, when we were clear of the house, “for there are all sorts of folks about, and my wits are that moydered that I know not how to keep an eye on right and left. Ah, I see it is Captain, that you bought from the Wakefield corn-miller, and a good horse ’tis. So ho, my lad, stand over! Yes, lame indeed, but an hour or two’s rest, Master Will, an hour or two’s rest, you see—why, ’twill put him to rights, I warrant.”
“But if your stables are not safe, John? And, hark you, I would not now lose Captain for a hundred pounds, for he hath been in battle and behaved himself like a hero. See, he hath gotten a thrust from a pikestaff in his right shoulder to show for his pains.”
“Lord, Master Will, and you have been fighting? Why, why; but now, William lad, do you bring Captain into our back kitchen, where we can keep an eye on him while he rests. There is enow straw on the floor to bed half a dozen horses, for there were four wounded men slept in it last night, that were fleeing to Pontefract Castle, only they could get no further along the road. These be sad times indeed, Master William. A pike-thrust, quotha?”
So we had Captain into the outer kitchen, and gave him a feed of corn to comfort him, after which I went and sat against the fire in the front kitchen until such time as he should be sufficiently rested to go on his journey again. And, indeed, I myself was not sorry to rest me a while, for, eager as I was to get home again, the fatigue and excitement of the past two days and nights was beginning to tell upon me and make me sleepy. So there I sat on the long settle, the drover having gone to his bed during our absence, and talked to John Sanderson about the great fight of the previous day, news of which had come to him in fragments all day long.
“Yes, indeed, Master Will,” said John, “we have had our ears warmed by this news, I warrant you. For some said that Prince Rupert and his army were cut to pieces, and that York was in flames, and Marston Moor sodden with blood. Ay, sad times indeed these be, William, of a surety.”
“You would have thought so, John, if you had been where I was yesterday,” I said, my mind dwelling on the faces of the dead men I had seen.
“Why,” said he, “I dare say it was terrible work, and old Mother Robey that lives at Church Garforth yonder, she foretold that something would come to pass ere long. For she had dreams, she said, of blood, and of horses flying through the air, which meant, she said, ill tidings and great disaster, and she saw the King’s crown fall from a pillar, all of which is sad things, Master Will, and disquieting to a sober man. Indeed, I know not what the world is coming to nowadays.”
So he went on talking, for he was glib of tongue, until his head began to nod, and presently he fell fast asleep in his chair, and left me sitting there alone in the inn kitchen. Sleep, too, was weighing down my own eyelids very heavily, and I could have stretched myself along the settle and fallen into slumber at once if it had not been for my anxiety about getting forward on my journey. However, that presently gave way under my great need of rest, and I was very soon as fast asleep as John Sanderson himself.
How long I slept I do not know, but when I awoke the fire had burnt very low, and there was a faint streak of gray light stealing in through the shutters. John Sanderson still snored heavily in his chair. I was rather cold and shivery, and was going to rise and draw the fire together, when I heard steps outside, followed by the pit-pat of a horse’s feet. A hand tapped
