"Ay, a brave strong man if you will. But not such a man as my son could fight under. Besides, I would not have him mingle with such a crew as this army fashioned under the New Model. Would I have my son become a psalm-singing hypocrite? Would I have him taught to cry 'down with the Prayer Book'? Would I have him made a sour-faced follower of old Nol, learning to make pious speeches in order to gain promotion? No, I had fought under the king's standard, and, although the king betrayed us all, I would not have my son serve under my Lord Protector. Nevertheless, Roland is no weakling, as you see, neither is he a fool. Poor as I have been, I have seen to it that he hath learned something of letters. He can write like a clerk, and can read not only in the English tongue, but in Latin and in French."
"In French?" said the woman eagerly, I thought.
"Ay, in French. Besides without ever having served with the wars, he knows everything of fighting that I could tell him, and as for swordcraft, I doubt if there is a man in London town who could stand against him."
Again the woman looked at me eagerly, and then she broke out like one in anger.
"It is well, Master Rashcliffe, for, mark you, if what I have discovered is true, he will need all his cleverness, all his learning, and all his knowledge of swordcraft. We play for high stakes, Master Rashcliffe—nothing less than the throne of England."
"Ay, I gathered as much," said my father thoughtfully.
"Look you here," went on the woman. "You desire to gain back your estates; you desire, moreover, that your son Roland shall not be a penniless, lackland squire like you. Why, I discovered as I came hither, that for years this manor house hath been little better than a farm kitchen, that such as Nicholas Beel, the blacksmith, who fought for Cromwell, and 'praise be his name, Elijah of the Marsh,' and 'Grace-abounding Reuben,' who used to be one of your hinds, be now fattening on your best farms."
"Ay, it is so," cried my father angrily. "The very kitchen wenches of twenty years ago laugh at me, and call me 'Landless Rashcliffe'."
"And Charles Stuart will never give you back these lands unless he is made," said the woman.
"Ay, ay," said my father, "I know enough of him for that; but to your tale, Katharine Harcomb. Tell me what you know."
"I know that James, the new king's brother, is full of hope that Charles will kill himself by revelry in a year," replied the woman. "I know that he is next heir to the throne. I know that he is intriguing to get back the Catholic religion to the country, and I know that neither Charles nor James loves either you or yours."
"And yet I fought for their father," said my father.
"Ay, and like the honest man thou art, declared that thou couldst never fight for him again after the contents of his papers which were found on Naseby field were made known," retorted the woman. "I know this, too, that if Charles had gained the victory over Cromwell, thou wouldst have been beheaded for what thou didst say at that time. Mark you, a Stuart never forgets, and never forgives, for all the fair promises that they make. Therefore if ever thou dost get back thine own, and if ever thy son is to be more than a mere yeoman ploughing his own fields—ay, and poor fields at that, for the best have all been taken away—he must be able to force the new king's hand."
"Ay, I know all this," replied my father impatiently, "but let us hear what you have discovered, Katharine; let us know the truth concerning the strange things I have heard."
"It is no use telling of what I know, unless this son of thine be bold enough to make use of it," replied the woman. "I am a girl no longer, Master Rashcliffe; I am not so simple as I was in those days when I was waiting maid to Mistress Rashcliffe. Enough to say that I have found out sufficient to make Charles Stuart, who is even now preparing to come back to England as king, eager not only to restore thy lands, but to give a place of honour to Master Roland here. Ay, but that is not all. The thing which I know to exist must be in our hands, ay, and in our hands in such a way that we shall be able to make our own bargain with the new king."
"But what is it?"
"It is this. James, Duke of York, is not the next heir to the throne."
"Well, and what of that?"
"This," replied the woman. "You have heard of the Welsh girl, Lucy Walters?"
"Ay, I have hear of her."
"And you have heard of her son, a lad who goes by the name of James Croft?"
"Yes," said my father, "I have heard of him; but it doth not matter."
"Ay, but it doth matter."
"Why?"
"Because he, although Charles Stuart will doubtless deny it, is the next heir to the throne of England."
My father started back in amazement.
"He is Charles' son," continued the woman.
"Ay, but——"
"Charles married Lucy Walters—married her in Holland."
"But the proof, the proof!" cried my father.
"It is this proof of which I come to speak," said Katharine Harcomb. "But answer me this: suppose the proof could be obtained, suppose the box containing the contract of marriage between Charles Stuart and Lucy Walters could be obtained—what then?"
For a time my father was silent. Evidently he regarded the woman's declaration of great import, and I saw that he carefully considered her words.
"Charles would not desire it to be known," he said at length.
"Nay, that he would not," said the woman with a laugh; "but there is more than that, Master Rashcliffe."
"Ay, there is," said my father thoughtfully. "He who could be fortunate enough to possess that marriage contract would be able to make his terms not only with the king, but the king's brother."
"Ah, you begin to see."
"The man who possessed such a secret could stir up civil war in England," said my father; "such a war that might well make men forget the war between Charles I and Cromwell."
"Ay," said the woman; "but what is more to our purpose, Master Rashcliffe, he could make the king restore the Rashcliffe lands, and gain for his son a place in England worthy his name."
"And do others know of this secret, Katharine?" asked my father.
"Yes," replied the woman; "it hath been guessed at by many, but I alone know where the box containing the marriage contract is hidden. It hath cost me much trouble to find out, but at last I have done it."
I looked at the woman as she said this, and I thought there was a furtive look in her eyes.
"And how did you find it out?" asked my father presently.
"Of that more anon," replied Katharine Harcomb. "Enough to say now that this is the secret I promised to tell you, a secret which should give you the power to make your own terms with the king. All now depends on young Roland here."
"On me!" I cried, speaking for the first time, although, as may be imagined, I listened eagerly to every word which had been spoken.
"Ay, on you," replied the woman, "for that marriage contract is in hiding. It is hidden in a black box,[1] and may be obtained only with difficulty. The question is, Master Roland, will you undertake the work of bringing it hither?"
"How old is the king's son?" I cried, for her story had excited my imagination and appealed to that love for adventure which for a long time had been struggling for expression.
"How old?" repeated the woman; "he is a lad of about eleven years. At present he is with the dowager queen."
"And do you mean that he is the next heir to the English throne?" I cried.
"Ay, that he is," replied the woman;