The Rafael Sabatini Megapack. Rafael Sabatini
with his plans in the very presence of Ruth.
They had broken their fast, and they still lingered in the dining-room, the largest and most important room in Lupton House. It was cool and pleasant here in contrast to the heat of the July sun, which, following upon the late wet weather, beat fiercely on the lawn, the window-doors to which stood open. The cloth had been raised, and Diana and her mother had lately left the room. Ruth, in the window-seat, at a small oval table, was arranging a cluster of roses in an old bronze bowl. Sir Rowland, his stiff short figure carefully dressed in a suit of brown camlet, his fair wig very carefully curled, occupied a tall-backed armchair near the empty fireplace. Richard, perched on the table’s edge, swung his shapely legs idly backwards and forwards and cogitated upon a pretext to call for a morning draught of last October’s ale.
Ruth completed her task with the roses and turned her eyes upon her brother.
“You are not looking well, Richard,” she said, which was true enough, for much hard drinking was beginning to set its stamp on Richard, and young as he was, his insipidly fair face began to display a bloatedness that was exceedingly unhealthy.
“Oh, I am well enough,” he answered almost peevishly, for these allusions to his looks were becoming more frequent than he savoured.
“Gad!” cried Sir Rowland’s deep voice, “you’ll need to be well. I have work for you tomorrow, Dick.”
Dick did not appear to share his enthusiasm. “I am sick of the work you discover for us, Rowland,” he answered ungraciously.
But Blake showed no resentment. “Maybe you’ll find the present task more to your taste. If it’s deeds of derring-do you pine for, I am the man to satisfy you.” He smiled grimly, his bold grey eyes glancing across at Ruth, who was observing him, listening.
Richard sneered, but offered him no encouragement to proceed.
“I see,” said Blake, “that I shall have to tell you the whole story before you’ll credit me. Shalt have it, then. But…” and he checked on the word, his face growing serious, his eye wandering to the door, “I would not have it overheard—not for a king’s ransom,” which was more literally true than he may have intended it to be.
Richard looked over his shoulder carelessly at the door.
“We have no eavesdroppers,” he said, and his voice bespoke his contempt of the gravity of this news of which Sir Rowland made so much in anticipation. He was acquainted with Sir Rowland’s ways, and the importance of them. “What are you considering?” he inquired.
“To end the rebellion,” answered Blake, his voice cautiously lowered.
Richard laughed outright. “There are several others considering that—notably His Majesty King James, the Duke of Albemarle, and the Earl of Feversham. Yet they don’t appear to achieve it.”
“It is in that particular,” said Blake complacently, “that I shall differ from them.” He turned to Ruth, eager to engage her in the conversation, to flatter her by including her in the secret. Knowing the loyalist principles she entertained, he had no reason to fear that his plans could other than meet her approval. “What do you say, Mistress Ruth?” Presuming upon his friendship with her brother, he had taken to calling her by that name in preference to the other which he could not bring himself to give her. “Is it not an object worthy of a gentleman’s endeavour?”
“If you can save so many poor people from encompassing their ruin by following that rash young man the Duke of Monmouth, you will indeed be doing a worthy deed.”
Blake rose, and made her a leg. “Madam,” said he, “had aught been wanting to cement my resolve, your words would supply it to me. My plan is simplicity itself. I propose to capture Monmouth and his principal agents, and deliver them over to the King. And that is all.”
“A mere nothing,” croaked Richard.
“Could more be needed?” quoth Blake. “Once the rebel army is deprived of its leaders it will melt and dissolve of itself. Once the Duke is in the hands of his enemies there will be nothing left to fight for. Is it not shrewd?”
“You are telling us the object rather than the plan,” Ruth reminded him. “If the plan is as good as the object…”
“As good?” he echoed, chuckling. “You shall judge.” And briefly he sketched for her the springe he was setting with the help of Mr. Newlington. “Newlington is rich; the Duke is in straits for money. Newlington goes today to offer him twenty thousand pounds; and the Duke is to do him the honour of supping at his house tomorrow night to fetch the money. It is a reasonable request for Mr. Newlington to make under the circumstances, and the Duke cannot—dare not refuse it.”
“But how will that advance your project?” Ruth inquired, for Blake had paused again, thinking that the rest must be obvious.
“In Mr. Newlington’s orchard I propose to post a score or so of men, well armed. Oh! I shall run no risks of betrayal by engaging Bridgwater folk. I’ll get the fellows I need from General Feversham. We take Monmouth at supper, as quietly as may be, with what gentlemen happen to have accompanied him. We bind and gag the Duke, and we convey him with all speed and quiet out of Bridgwater. Feversham shall send a troop to await me a mile or so from the town on the road to Weston Zoyland. We shall join them with our captive, and thus convey him to the Royalist General. Could aught be simpler or more infallible?”
Richard had slipped from the table. He had changed his mind on the subject of the importance of the business Blake had in view. Excited by it, he clapped his friend on the back approvingly.
“A great plan!” he cried. “Is it not, Ruth?”
“It should be the means of saving hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives,” said she, “and so it deserves to prosper. But what of the officers who may be with the Duke?” she inquired.
“There are not likely to be many—half a dozen, say. We shall have to make short work of them, lest they should raise an alarm.” He saw her glance clouding. “That is the ugly part of the affair,” he was quick to add, himself assuming a look of sadness. He sighed. “What help is there?” he asked. “Better that those few should suffer than that, as you yourself have said, there should be some thousands of lives lost before this rebellion is put down. Besides,” he continued, “Monmouth’s officers are far-seeing, ambitious men, who have entered into this affair to promote their own personal fortunes. They are gamesters who have set their lives upon the board against a great prize, and they know it. But these other poor misguided people who have gone out to fight for liberty and religion—it is these whom I am striving to rescue.”
His words sounded fervent, his sentiments almost heroic. Ruth looked at him, and wondered had she misjudged him in the past. She sighed. Then she thought of Wilding. He was on the other side, but where was he? Rumour ran that he was dead; that he and Grey had quarrelled at Lyme, and that Wilding had been killed as a result. Had it not been for Diana, who strenuously bade her attach no credit to these reports, she would readily have believed them. As it was she waited, wondering, thinking of him always as she had seen him on that day at Walford when he had taken his leave of her, and more than once, when she pondered the words he had said, the look that had invested his drooping eyes, she found herself with tears in her own. They welled up now, and she rose hastily to her feet.
She looked a moment at Blake who was watching her keenly, speculating upon this emotion of which she betrayed some sign, and wondering might not his heroism have touched her, for, as we have seen, he had arrayed a deed of excessive meanness, a deed worthy, almost, of the Iscariot, in the panoply of heroic achievement.
“I think,” she said, “that you are setting your hand to a very worthy and glorious enterprise, and I hope, nay, I am sure, that success must attend your efforts.” He was still bowing his thanks when she passed out through the open window-doors into the sunshine of the garden.
Sir Rowland swung round upon Richard. “A great enterprise, Dick,” he cried; “I may count upon you for one?”
“Aye,”