Micah Clarke Chapter 6 - Of the Letter That Came From the Lowlands

John Brandon (0:20)

CHAPTER VI. Of The Letter That Came From The Lowlands.

In the morning I was up betimes and went forthwith, after the country fashion, to our guest's room, to see if there was ought in which I could serve him. On pushing at his door I found that it was fastened, which surprised me the more, as I knew that there was neither key nor bolt upon the inside. On my pressing against it, however, it began to yield, and I could then see that a heavy chest, which was used to stand near the window, had been pulled round in order to shut out any intrusion. This precaution, taken under my father's roof, as though he were in a den of thieves, angered me, and I gave a butt with my shoulder, which cleared the box out of the way, and enabled me to enter the room. The man Saxon was sitting up in bed, staring about him as though he were not very certain for the moment where he was. He had tied a white kerchief round his head by way of night bonnet, and his hard-visaged, clean-shaven face looking out through this, together with his bony figure, gave him some resemblance to a gigantic old woman. The bottle of Yusk-e-Bow stood empty by his bedside. Clearly his fears had been realized, and he had had an attack of the Persian egg. Ah, my young friend, he said at last, is it then the custom of this part of the country to carry your visitors' rooms by storm or escalado in the early hours of the morning?

Is it the custom, I answered sternly, to barricade up your door when you're sleeping under the roof-tree of an honest man? What did you fear that you should take such a precaution? Nay, you are indeed a spitfire, he replied, sinking back upon the pillow and drawing the clothes round him. Of your cuff, as the Germans call it, or sometimes tolkoff, which in its literal significance meaneth a fool's head, your father was, as I have heard, a strong and a fierce man, when the blood of youth ran in his veins. But you, I should judge, are in no way behind him. Know then that the bearer of papers of import, Documenta resiosa, said Periculosa, is bound to leave not to chance, but to guard in every way the charge which hath been committed to him. True, it is that I am in the house of an honest man, but I know not who may come or who may go during the hours of the night. Indeed, for the matter of that, but enough is said, I shall be with you anon. Your clothes are dry and are ready for you, I remarked. Enough, enough, he answered. I have no quarrel with the suit which your father has lent me. It may be that I have been used to better, but they will serve my turn. The camp is not the court.

It was evident to me that my father's suit was infinitely better, both in texture and material, than that which our visitor had brought with him.

As he had withdrawn his head, however, entirely beneath the bedclothes, there was nothing more to be said, so I descended to the lower room, where I found Toy Father busily engaged, fastening a new buckle to his sword-belt, while my mother and the maid were preparing the morning meal.

Come into the yard with me, Micah, quoth my father. I would have a word with you. The workmen had not yet come to their work. So we strolled out into the sweet morning air and seated ourselves on the low stone embankment on which the skins are dressed. I have been out here this morning trying my hand at the broadsword exercise, said he. I find that I am as quick as ever on a thrust, but my cuts are sadly stiff. I might be of use at a pinch, but, alas, I am not the same swordsman who led the left troop of the finest horse regiment that ever followed a kettle drum.

The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken away. Yet, if I am old and worn, there is the fruit of my loins to stand in my place, and to wield the same sword in the same cause. You shall go in my place, Micah. Go? Go with her. Hush, lad, and listen. Let not your mother know too much, for the hearts of women are soft. When Abraham offered up his eldest born, I troat that he said little to Sarah on the matter. Here is the letter. Know you who this Dicky Rumboldt is? Surely I have heard you speak of him as an old companion of yours, the same, a staunch man and true. So faithful was he. Faithful even to slaying, that when the army of the righteous disbursed, he did not lay aside his zeal with his buff coat. He took to business as a maulster at Hotteston. And in his house was planned the famous Rye House plot, in which so many good men were involved. Was it not a foul assassination plot, I asked? Nay, nay, be not led away by terms. It is a vile invention of the malignance that these men planned assassination. What they would do they proposed doing in broad daylight, thirty of them against fifty of the Royal Guard, when Charles and James passed on their way to Newmarket. If the Royal brothers got pistol bullet or sword stab, it would be in an open fight, and at the risk of their attackers. It was give and take, and no murder.