Part 9 (1/2)
A STRANGE RIDE
Rat-a-tat-tat at the first dim hint of dawn went the chamberlain's knuckles upon the door. To Nick it seemed scarce midnight yet, so sound had been his sleep.
Master Carew having gotten into his high-topped riding-boots with a great puffing and tugging, they washed their faces at the inn-yard pump by the smoky light of the hostler's lantern, and then in a subdued, half-wakened way made a hearty breakfast off the fragments of the last nights feast. Part of the remaining cold meat, cheese, and cakes Carew stowed in his leather pouch. The rest he left in the lap of a beggar sleeping beside the door.
The street was dim with a chilly fog, through which a few pale stars still struggled overhead. The houses were all shut and barred; n.o.body was abroad, and the night-watch slept in comfortable doorways here and there, with lolling heads and lanterns long gone out. As they came along the crooked street, a stray cat scurried away with scared green eyes, and a kenneled hound set up a lonesome howl.
But the Blue Boar Inn was stirring like an ant-hill, with firefly lanterns flitting up and down, and a cheery glow about the open door.
The horses of the company, scrubbed unreasonably clean, snorted and stamped in little bridled clumps about the courtyard, and the stable-boys, not scrubbed at all, clanked at the pump or shook out wrinkled saddle-cloths with most prodigious yawns. The grooms were buckling up the packs; the chamberlain and sleepy-lidded maids stood at the door, waiting their fare-well farthings.
Some of the company yawned in the tap-room; some yawned out of doors with steaming stirrup-cup in hand; and some came yawning down the stairways pulling on their riding-cloaks, booted, spurred, and ready for a long day's ride.
”Good-morrow, sirs,” said Carew, heartily. ”Good-morrow, sir, to you,”
said they, and all came over to speak to Nicholas in a very kindly way; and one or two patted him on the cheek and walked away speaking in under-tones among themselves, keeping one eye on Carew all the while.
And Master Tom Heywood, the play-writer, came out with a great slice of fresh wheat-bread, thick with b.u.t.ter and dripping with yellow honey, and gave it to Nick; and stood there silently with a very queer expression watching him eat it, until Carew's groom led up a stout hackney and a small roan palfrey to the block, and the master-player, crying impatiently, ”Up with thee, Nick; we must be ambling!” sprang into the saddle of the gray.
The sleepy inn-folk roused a bit to send a cheery volley of, ”Fare ye well, sirs; come again,” after the departing players, and the long cavalcade cantered briskly out of the inn-yard, in double rank, with a great clinking of bridle-chains and a drifting odor of wet leather and heavy perfume.
Nick sat very erect and rode his best, feeling like some errant knight of the great Round Table, ready to right the whole world's wrongs. ”But what about the horse?” said he. ”We can na keep him in Stratford, sir.”
”Oh, that's all seen to,” said the master-player. ”'Tis to be sent back by the weekly carrier.”
”And where do I turn into the Stratford road, sir?” asked Nick, as the players clattered down the cobbled street in a cloud of mist that steamed up so thickly from the stones that the horses seemed to have no legs, but to float like boats.
”Some distance further on,” replied Carew, carelessly. ”'Tis not the way we came that thou shalt ride to-day; that is t' other end of town, and the gate not open yet. But the longest way round is the shortest way home, so let's be spurring on.”
At the corner of the street a cross and sleepy cobbler was strapping a dirty urchin, who bellowed l.u.s.tily. Nick winced.
”Hollo!” cried Carew. ”What's to do?”
”Why, sir,” said Nick, ruefully, ”father will thresh me well this night.”
”Nay,” said Carew, in a quite decided tone; ”that he'll not, I promise thee!”--and as he spoke he chuckled softly to himself.
The man before them turned suddenly around and grinned queerly; but, catching the master-player's eye, whipped his head about like a weather-vane in a gale, and cantered on.
As they came down the narrow street the watchmen were just swinging wide the city gates, and gave a cheer to speed the parting guests, who gave a rouse in turn, and were soon lost to sight in the mist which hid the valley in a great gray sea.
”How shall I know where to turn off, sir?” asked Nick, a little anxiously. ”'Tis all alike.”
”I'll tell thee,” said the master-player; ”rest thee easy on that score.
I know the road thou art to ride much better than thou dost thyself.”
He smiled quite frankly as he spoke, and Nick could not help wondering why the man before them again turned around and eyed him with that sneaking grin.
He did not like the fellow's looks. He had scowling black brows, hair cut as close as if the rats had gnawed it off, a pair of ill-shaped bandy-legs, a wide, unwholesome slit of a mouth, and a nose like a raspberry tart. His whole appearance was servile and mean, and there was a sly malice in his furtive eyes. Besides that, and a thing which strangely fascinated Nick's gaze, there was a hole through the gristle of his right ear, scarred about as if it had been burned, and through this hole the fellow had tied a bow of crimson ribbon, like a b.u.t.terfly alighted upon his ear.
”A pretty fellow!” said Carew, with a shrug. ”He'll be hard put to dodge the hangman yet; but he's a right good fellow in his way, and he has served me--he has served me.”
The first loud burst of talk had ceased, and all rode silently along.