No Quarter!. Reid Mayne
William Trevor.”
“Ah! now I can understand why your blood boiled up at my strenuous defence of the Parliament – the son of Sir William Trevor. But we won’t enter upon politics again. After blows, words are inadmissible, as ungracious. Your father’s house is near Abergavenny, if I remember rightly?”
“It is.”
“That’s good twenty-seven miles from here. You don’t purpose going on there to-night?”
“No; I intend putting up for the night at Monmouth.”
“Well, that’s within the possibilities; but not with daylight, unless you press your horse hard – and he looks rather jaded.”
“No wonder. I’ve ridden him all the way from Witney, in Oxfordshire, since six this morning.”
“He must be good stuff to stand it, and show the spirit he did just now. But for all he seems rather badly done up – another reason for my having got the better of you.”
At this both smiled, the young Cavalier, as before, refusing to accept the complimentary acknowledgment.
“A pity,” ran on Sir Richard, “to press the poor animal farther to night – that is, so far as Monmouth. It’s all of ten miles yet, and the road difficult – pitches up and down. You should rest him nearer, by way of reward for his noble performance of the day.”
“Indeed, I was thinking of it; had half made up my mind to sleep at Coleford.”
“Ah! you mus’n’t stop at Coleford, much less sleep there.”
“And why not?”
“The Coleford people are mad angry with the King, as are most others in the Forest. No wonder, from the way Sir John Wintour has been behaving to them since he got the monopoly grant of what his Majesty had no right to give – rights that are theirs. Their blood’s up about it, and just now to appear in the streets of Coleford dressed as you are, cavalier and courtier fashion, might be attended with danger.”
“I’ll risk – defy it!”
“Bravely spoken, and I’ve no doubt you’d bravely do both. But there’s no need for your doing one or the other.”
“If you describe these Coleford fellows aright, how can I help it, Sir Richard? My road passes through their town.”
“True, but there’s a way you may avoid it.”
“Oh! I’m not going to skulk round, taking bypaths, like a thief or deer-stealer. I’ll give them a fight first.”
“And that fight might be your last – likely would, Master Trevor. But no. You’ve fought your way into the Forest so gallantly, it behoves him you all but conquered to see you safe out of it. To do which, however, I must ask you to give up all thoughts of sleeping either at Monmouth or Coleford, and be my guest for the night.”
“But where, Sir Richard? I did not know that you had a house in the Forest.”
“Nor have I. But one of my friends has; and I think I can promise you fair hospitality in it – by proxy. Besides, that little hole I’ve made in your hand – sorry at having made it – needs looking to without delay, and my friend has some skill as a surgeon. I could offer some other inducements that might help in deciding you – as, for instance, a pair of pretty faces to see. But coming from the Court of Queen Henriette, with her galaxy of grand dames, perhaps you’ve had a surfeit of that sort of thing.”
The young courtier shifted uneasily in his saddle, a slight blush coming over his cheeks, as though the words rather gave him pain.
“If not,” continued Sir Richard, without heeding these indices of emotion, “I can promise to show you something rare in the way of feminine beauty. For that I’ll back Sabrina and Vaga against all your maids of honour and court ladies – the Queen included – and win with either.”
“Sabrina! Vaga! Singular names! May I ask who the ladies are?”
“You may do more – make their acquaintance, if you consent to my proposal. You will?”
“Sir Richard, your kindness overpowers me. I am at your service every way.”
“Thanks! Let us on, then, without delay. We’ve yet full five miles of road before us, ere we can reach the cage that holds this pair of pretty birds. Allons!”
At which he gave his horse the spur, Trevor doing the same; and once more the two rode side by side; but friendly now – even to affection.
Chapter Three
Beautiful Forest Birds
In all England’s territory there is no district more interesting than the Forest of Dean. Historically it figures in our earliest annals, as borderland and bulwark of the ancient Silures, who, with Caractacus at their head, held the country around, defending it on many a hard-fought field against the legionaries of Ostorius Scapula. Centuries after, it again became the scene of sanguinary strife between the descendants of these same Silures – then better known as Britons – and the Saxon invaders; and still farther down the stream of time another invasion wasted it – Norman and Saxon arrayed on the same side against Welsh – still the same warlike stock, the sons of Siluria. This conflict against odds – commencing with the Norman William, and continued, or renewed, down through the days made illustrious by the gallant Llewellyn – only came to an end with those of the equally gallant Glendower, when the fires of Welsh independence, now and then blazing up intermittently, were finally and for ever trodden out.
Many a grand historic name is associated with this same Forest of Dean – famed warriors and famous or infamous kings. The Conqueror himself was hunting in it when the news reached him of the rising in Northumberland, and he swore “By the splendour of God, he would lay that land waste by fire and sword!” – a cruel oath, as cruelly kept. In its dark recesses the wretched Edward the Second endeavoured to conceal himself, but in vain – dragged thence to imprisonment in the dungeons of Berkeley Castle, there to die. And within its boundaries was born that monarch of most romantic fame, Harry of Monmouth, hero of Agincourt.
And the day was approaching – had, in fact, come – when other names that brighten the page of England’s history were to fling their halo of illumination over the Forest of Dean – those of the chivalrous Waller, the brave but modest Massey, Essex, Fairfax, and greatest, most glorious of all, that of Cromwell himself. It was to be darkened too, as by the shadow of death – ay, death itself – through many a raid of marauding Cavaliers, with the ruffian Rupert at their head.
Dropping history, and returning to its interest otherwise, the Forest of Dean claims attention from peculiarities of many kinds. Geologically regarded, it is an outlier of the carboniferous system of South Wales, from which it is separated by a breadth of the Devonian that has been denuded between – so widely separated as to have similitude to an island in the far-off ocean. An elevated island, too, rising above the “Old Red,” through successive strata of shales, mountain limestone, and millstone grit, to nearly a thousand feet higher than the general level of the surrounding terrain. Towards this, on every side, and all round for miles and tens of miles, it presents a façade not actually precipitous, but so steep and difficult of ascent as to make horses breathe hard climbing it; while in loaded cart or wagon, teams have to be doubled. Just such a “pitch” was that on whose top the bitter war of words between Eustace Trevor and Sir Richard Walwyn had come to blows.
But, though thus high in air, the Forest of Dean does not possess the usual characteristics of what are termed plateaux, or elevated tablelands. As a rule these show a level surface, or with but gentle undulations, while that of the Forest is everywhere intersected by deep valleys and ravines.
A very interesting geological fact is offered in the surface formation of this singular tract of country, its interior area being in most places much lower than the rim around it. The peculiarity is due to the hard carboniferous limestone, which forms its periphery, having better resisted denudation than the softer matrix of the coal measures embraced by it. The disintegrating rains, and the streams, often torrents, their