The Tavern Knight (Historical Novel). Rafael Sabatini

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       'Tis a sorry—

      A loud knock that echoed ominously through the mean chamber, fell in that instant upon the door. And with it came a panting cry of—

      “Open, Cris! Open, for the love of God!”

      Sir Crispin's ballad broke off short, whilst the lad paused in the act of quitting the room, and turned to look to him for direction.

      “Well, my master,” quoth Galliard, “for what do you wait?”

      “To learn your wishes, sir,” was the answer sullenly delivered.

      “My wishes! Rat me, there's one without whose wishes brook less waiting! Open, fool!”

      Thus rudely enjoined, the lad lifted the latch and set wide the door, which opened immediately upon the street. Into the apartment stumbled a roughly clad man of huge frame. He was breathing hard, and fear was writ large upon his rugged face. An instant he paused to close the door after him, then turning to Galliard, who had risen and who stood eyeing him in astonishment—

      “Hide me somewhere, Cris,” he panted—his accent proclaiming his Irish origin. “My God, hide me, or I'm a dead man this night!”

      “'Slife, Hogan! What is toward? Has Cromwell overtaken us?”

      “Cromwell, quotha? Would to Heaven 'twere no worse! I've killed a man!”

      “If he's dead, why run?”

      The Irishman made an impatient gesture.

      “A party of Montgomery's foot is on my heels. They've raised the whole of Penrith over the affair, and if I'm taken, soul of my body, 'twill be a short shrift they'll give me. The King will serve me as poor Wrycraft was served two days ago at Kendal. Mother of Mercy!” he broke off, as his ear caught the clatter of feet and the murmur of voices from without. “Have you a hole I can creep into?”

      “Up those stairs and into my room with you!” said Crispin shortly. “I will try to head them off. Come, man, stir yourself; they are here.”

      Then, as with nimble alacrity Hogan obeyed him and slipped from the room, he turned to the lad, who had been a silent spectator of what had passed. From the pocket of his threadbare doublet he drew a pack of greasy playing cards.

      “To table,” he said laconically.

      But the boy, comprehending what was required of him, drew back at sight of those cards as one might shrink from a thing unclean.

      “Never!” he began. “I'll not defile—”

      “To table, fool!” thundered Crispin, with a vehemence few men could have withstood. “Is this a time for Presbyterian scruples? To table, and help a me play this game, or, by the living God, I'll—” Without completing his threat he leaned forward until Kenneth felt his hot, wine-laden breath upon his cheek. Cowed by his words, his gesture, and above all, his glance, the lad drew up a chair, mumbling in explanation—intended as an excuse to himself for his weakness—that he submitted since a man's life was at stake.

      Opposite him Galliard resumed his seat with a mocking smile that made him wince. Taking up the cards, he flung a portion of them to the boy, whilst those he retained he spread fanwise in his hand as if about to play. Silently Kenneth copied his actions.

      Nearer and louder grew the sounds of the approach, lights flashed before the window, and the two men, feigning to play, sat on and waited.

      “Have a care, Master Stewart,” growled Crispin sourly, then in a louder voice—for his quick eye had caught a glimpse of a face that watched them from the window—“I play the King of Spades!” he cried, with meaning look.

      A blow was struck upon the door, and with it came the command to “Open in the King's name!” Softly Sir Crispin rapped out an oath. Then he rose, and with a last look of warning to Kenneth, he went to open. And as he had greeted Hogan he now greeted the crowd mainly of soldiers—that surged about the threshold.

      “Sirs, why this ado? Hath the Sultan Oliver descended upon us?”

      In one hand he still held his cards, the other he rested upon the edge of the open door. It was a young ensign who stood forward to answer him.

      “One of Lord Middleton's officers hath done a man to death not half an hour agone; he is an Irishman Captain Hogan by name.”

      “Hogan—Hogan?” repeated Crispin, after the manner of one who fumbles in his memory. “Ah, yes—an Irishman with a grey head and a hot temper. And he is dead, you say?”

      “Nay, he has done the killing.”

      “That I can better understand. 'Tis not the first time, I'll be sworn.”

      “But it will be the last, Sir Crispin.”

      “Like enough. The King is severe since we crossed the Border.” Then in a brisker tone: “I thank you for bringing me this news,” said he, “and I regret that in my poor house there be naught I can offer you wherein to drink His Majesty's health ere you proceed upon your search. Give you good night, sir.” And by drawing back a pace he signified his wish to close the door and be quit of them.

      “We thought,” faltered the young officer, “that—that perchance you would assist us by—”

      “Assist you!” roared Crispin, with a fine assumption of anger. “Assist you take a man? Sink me, sir, I would have you know I am a soldier, not a tipstaff!”

      The ensign's cheeks grew crimson under the sting of that veiled insult.

      “There are some, Sir Crispin, that have yet another name СКАЧАТЬ