The Black Tor: A Tale of the Reign of James the First, George Manville Fenn [love books to read txt] 📗

About as rugged, fierce-looking a gang of men as a lad could set eyes on, as they struggled up the steep cliff road leading to the castle, which frowned at the summit, where the flashing waters of the Gleame swept round three sides of its foot, half hidden by the beeches and birches, which overhung the limpid stream. The late spring was at its brightest and best, but there had been no rain; and as the men who had waded the river lower down, climbed the steep cliff road, they kicked up the white limestone dust, and caked their wet high boots, which, in several instances, had opened holes in which toes could be seen, looking like curious reptiles deep in gnarled and crumpled shells.

“Beggars! What a gang!” said Ralph Darley, a dark, swarthy lad of perhaps seventeen, but looking older, from having an appearance of something downy beginning to come up that spring about his chin, and a couple of streaks, like eyebrows out of place, upon his upper lip. He was well dressed, in the fashion of Solomon King James’s day; and he wore a sword, as he sat half up the rugged slope, on a huge block of limestone, which had fallen perhaps a hundred years before, from the cliff above, and was mossy now, and half hidden by the ivy which covered its side.

“Beggars,” he said again; “and what a savage looking lot.”

As they came on, it began to dawn upon him that they could not be beggars, for if so, they would have been the most truculent-looking party that ever asked for the contributions of the charitable. One, who seemed to be their leader, was a fierce, grizzled, red-nosed fellow, wearing a rusty morion, in which, for want of a feather, a tuft of heather was stuck; he wore a long cloak, as rusty-looking as his helmet; and that he carried a sword was plain enough, for the well-worn scabbard had found a very convenient hole in the cloak, through which it had thrust itself in the most obtrusive manner, and looked like a tail with a vicious sting, for the cap of the leathern scabbard had been lost, and about three inches of steel blade and point were visible.

Ralph Darley was quick at observation, and took in quickly the fact that all the men were armed, and looked shabbier than their leader, though not so stout; for he was rubicund and portly, where he ought not to have been, for activity, though in a barrel a tubby space does indicate strength. Neither were the noses of the other men so red as their leader’s, albeit they were a villainous-looking lot.

“Not beggars, but soldiers,” thought Ralph; “and they’ve been in the wars.”

He was quite right, but he did not stop to think that there had been no wars for some years. Still, as aforesaid, he was right, but the war the party had been in was with poverty.

“What in the world do they want in this out-of-the-way place—on the road to nowhere?” thought Ralph. “If they’re not beggars, they have lost their way.”

He pushed back the hilt of his sword, and drew up one leg, covered with its high, buff-leather boot, beneath him, holding it as he waited for the party to come slowly up; and as they did, they halted where he sat, at the side of the road, and the leader, puffing and panting, took off his rusty morion with his left hand, and wiped his pink, bald head, covered with drops of perspiration, with his right, as he rolled his eyes at the lad.

“Hallo, young springald!” he cried, in a blustering manner. “Why don’t you jump up and salute your officer?”

“Because I can’t see him,” cried the lad sharply.

“What? And you carry a toasting-iron, like a rat’s tail, by your side. Here, who made this cursed road, where it ought to have been a ladder?”

“I don’t know,” said Ralph angrily. “Who are you? What do you want? This road does not lead anywhere.”

“That’s a lie, my young cock-a-hoop; if it did not lead somewhere, it would not have been made.”

The man’s companions burst into a hoarse fit of laughter, and the boy flushed angrily.

“Well,” he said haughtily, “it leads up to Cliff Castle, and no farther.”

“That’s far enough for us, my game chicken. Is that heap of blocks of stone on the top there the castle?”

“Yes! What do you want?”

The man looked the lad up and down, rolled one of his eyes, which looked something like that of a lobster, and then winked the lid over the inflated orb, and said:

“Gentlemen on an ambassage don’t read their despatches to every springald they see by the roadside. Here, jump up, and show us the way, and I’ll ask Sir Morton Darley to give you a stoup of wine for your trouble, or milk and water.”

“You ask Sir Morton to give you wine!” cried the lad angrily. “Why, who are you, to dare such a thing?”

“What!” roared the man. “Dare? Who talks to Captain Purlrose, his Highness’s trusted soldier, about dare?” and he put on a tremendously fierce look, blew out his cheeks, drew his brows over his eyes, and slapped his sword-hilt heavily, as if to keep it in its sheath, for fear it should leap out and kill the lad, adding, directly after, in a hoarse whisper: “Lie still, good sword, lie still.”

All this theatrical display was evidently meant to awe the lad, but instead of doing so, it made him angry, for he flushed up, and said quickly:

“I dare,” and the men laughed.

“You dare!” cried the leader; “and pray, who may you be, my bully boy?”

“I don’t tell my name to every ragged fellow I meet in the road,” said the boy haughtily.

“What!” roared the man, clapping his hand upon the hilt of his blade, an action imitated by his followers.

“Keep your sword in its scabbard,” said Ralph, without wincing in the least. “If you have business with my father, this way.”

He sprang to his feet now, and gazed fiercely at the stranger.

“What?” cried the man, in a voice full of exuberant friendliness, which made the lad shrink in disgust, “you the son of Sir Morton Darley?”

“Yes: what of it?”

“The son of my beloved old companion-in-arms? Boy, let me embrace thee.”

To Ralph’s horror, the man took a step forward, and would have thrown his arms about his neck; but by a quick movement the lad stepped back, and the men laughed to see their leader grasp the wind.

“Don’t do that,” said Ralph sternly. “Do you mean to say that you want to speak to my father?”

“Speak to him? Yes, to fly to the hand of him whom I many a time saved from death. And so you are the son of Morton Darley? And a brave-looking, manly fellow too. Why, I might have known. Eye, nose, curled-up lip. Yes: all there. You are his very reflection, that I ought to have seen in the looking-glass of memory. Excuse this weak moisture of the eyes, boy. The sight of my old friend’s son brings up the happy companionship of the past. Time flies fast, my brave lad. Your father and I were hand and glove then. Never separate. We fought together, bled together, and ah! how fate is partial in the way she spreads her favours! Your father dresses his son in velvet; while I, poor soldier of fortune—I mean misfortune—am growing rusty; sword, morion, breast-plate, body battered, and face scarred by time.”

“Aren’t we going to have something to eat and drink, captain?” growled one of the men, with an ugly scowl.

“Ay, brave boys, and soon,” cried the leader.

“Then, leave off preaching, captain, till we’ve got our legs under a table.”

“Ah, yes. Poor boys, they are footsore and weary with the walk across your hilly moors. Excuse this emotion, young sir, and lead me to my old brother’s side.”

There was something comic in the boy’s look of perplexity and disgust, as, after a few moments’ hesitation, he began to lead the way toward the half castle, half manor-house, which crowned the great limestone cliff.

“Surely,” he thought, “my father cannot wish to see such a ragamuffin as this, with his coarse, bloated features, and disgraceful rags and dirt.”

But the next minute his thoughts took a different turn.

“If what the man says be true, father will be only too glad to help an old brother-officer in misfortune, and be sorry to see him in such a plight.”

With the frank generosity of youth, then, he softened his manner toward his companion, as they slowly climbed upward, the great beeches which grew out of the huge cracks and faults of the cliff shading them from the sun.

“So this is the way?” cried the man.

“Yes: the castle is up there,” and Ralph pointed.

“What! in ruins?” cried the captain.

“Ruins? No!” cried Ralph. “Those stones are natural; the top of the cliff. Our place is behind them. They do look like ruins, though.”

“Hah! But what an eagle’s nest. No wonder I find an eaglet on my way.”

Ralph winced, for the man clapped a dirty hand upon his shoulder, and gripped him fast, turning the lad into a walking-staff to help him on his road.

“Have you come far this morning?” said Ralph, to conceal his disgust.

“Ay, miles and miles, over stones and streams, and in and out among mines and holes. We were benighted, too, up yonder on the mountain.”

“Hill,” said Ralph; “we have no mountains here.”

“Hills when you’re fresh, lad; mountains when you’re footsore and weary. But we stumbled upon a niche, in a bit of a slope near the top, and turned out the bats and foxes, and slept there.”

“Where?” cried Ralph quickly. “Was there a little stream running there—warm water?”

“To be sure there was. Hard stones, and warm water: those were our bed and beverage last night.”

“I know the place. Darch Scarr.”

“Fine scar, too, lad. Been better if it had been healed up, with a door to keep out the cold wind. Oh! so this is where my old comrade lives,” he added, as he came in sight of an arched gateway, with embattled top and turrets, while through the entry, a tree-shaded courtyard could be seen. “And a right good dwelling too. Come on, brave boys. Here’s rest and breakfast at last.”

“And I hope you’ll go directly after,” thought Ralph, as he led the way into the courtyard, and paused at a second entrance, at the top of a flight of stone steps, well commanded by loopholes on either side. Then aloud:

“Will you wait here a minute, while I go and tell my father?”

“Yes: tell him his old brother-officer is here.”

“I did not catch your name when you spoke before,” said Ralph. “Captain Pearl Ross?”

“Nay, nay, boy; Purlrose. He’ll know directly you speak. Tell him, I’m waiting to grasp him by the hand.”

Ralph nodded, and sprang up the stone flight, while the visitor’s companions threw themselves down upon the steps to rest, their leader remaining standing, and placing himself by the mounting stone on one side, hand upon sword-hilt, and arranging his ragged cloak in folds with as much care as if it had been of newest velvet.