No Quarter!

“Thanks! Let us on, then, without delay. We’ve yet full five miles of road before us, ere we can reach the cage that holds this pair of pretty birds. Allons!”

At which he gave his horse the spur, Trevor doing the same; and once more the two rode side by side; but friendly now – even to affection.

Chapter Three

Beautiful Forest Birds

In all England’s territory there is no district more interesting than the Forest of Dean. Historically it figures in our earliest annals, as borderland and bulwark of the ancient Silures, who, with Caractacus at their head, held the country around, defending it on many a hard-fought field against the legionaries of Ostorius Scapula. Centuries after, it again became the scene of sanguinary strife between the descendants of these same Silures – then better known as Britons – and the Saxon invaders; and still farther down the stream of time another invasion wasted it – Norman and Saxon arrayed on the same side against Welsh – still the same warlike stock, the sons of Siluria. This conflict against odds – commencing with the Norman William, and continued, or renewed, down through the days made illustrious by the gallant Llewellyn – only came to an end with those of the equally gallant Glendower, when the fires of Welsh independence, now and then blazing up intermittently, were finally and for ever trodden out.

Many a grand historic name is associated with this same Forest of Dean – famed warriors and famous or infamous kings. The Conqueror himself was hunting in it when the news reached him of the rising in Northumberland, and he swore “By the splendour of God, he would lay that land waste by fire and sword!” – a cruel oath, as cruelly kept. In its dark recesses the wretched Edward the Second endeavoured to conceal himself, but in vain – dragged thence to imprisonment in the dungeons of Berkeley Castle, there to die. And within its boundaries was born that monarch of most romantic fame, Harry of Monmouth, hero of Agincourt.

And the day was approaching – had, in fact, come – when other names that brighten the page of England’s history were to fling their halo of illumination over the Forest of Dean – those of the chivalrous Waller, the brave but modest Massey, Essex, Fairfax, and greatest, most glorious of all, that of Cromwell himself. It was to be darkened too, as by the shadow of death – ay, death itself – through many a raid of marauding Cavaliers, with the ruffian Rupert at their head.

Dropping history, and returning to its interest otherwise, the Forest of Dean claims attention from peculiarities of many kinds. Geologically regarded, it is an outlier of the carboniferous system of South Wales, from which it is separated by a breadth of the Devonian that has been denuded between – so widely separated as to have similitude to an island in the far-off ocean. An elevated island, too, rising above the “Old Red,” through successive strata of shales, mountain limestone, and millstone grit, to nearly a thousand feet higher than the general level of the surrounding terrain. Towards this, on every side, and all round for miles and tens of miles, it presents a façade not actually precipitous, but so steep and difficult of ascent as to make horses breathe hard climbing it; while in loaded cart or wagon, teams have to be doubled. Just such a “pitch” was that on whose top the bitter war of words between Eustace Trevor and Sir Richard Walwyn had come to blows.

But, though thus high in air, the Forest of Dean does not possess the usual characteristics of what are termed plateaux, or elevated tablelands. As a rule these show a level surface, or with but gentle undulations, while that of the Forest is everywhere intersected by deep valleys and ravines.

A very interesting geological fact is offered in the surface formation of this singular tract of country, its interior area being in most places much lower than the rim around it. The peculiarity is due to the hard carboniferous limestone, which forms its periphery, having better resisted denudation than the softer matrix of the coal measures embraced by it. The disintegrating rains, and the streams, often torrents, their resulting sequence, have here and there cut channels of escape outward – some running west into the Wye, some eastward to espouse the Severn.

Very different is the Forest of Dean now from what it was in those days of which this tale treats – territorially more restricted, both in its boundaries and the area once bearing its name. Then it extended over the whole triangular space between the two great rivers, from the towns of Ross and Gloucester down to their union in the wide sea-like estuary of the Severn. Changed, too, in the character of its scenery. Now, here and there, a tall chimney may be seen soaring up out of its greenery of trees, and vomiting forth volumes of murky smoke, in striking disagreeable contrast with their verdure. Then there was nothing of this kind; – at least nothing to jar upon the mind, or mar the harmony of nature. Then, too, it was a real forest of grand old trees, with a thick tangle of underwood, luxuriant and shady. For the Court favourite, Sir John Wintour, had not yet wasted it with his five hundred woodcutters, all chopping and hacking away at the same time. It was only after the Restoration he did that; the robber’s monopoly granted him by the “Martyr King” having been re-bestowed by the “Merry Monarch.”

There were towns in the Forest then, notwithstanding – some of them busy centres as now; but the majority peaceful villages or hamlets; country houses, too, some of pretentious style – mansions, and castles. A few of these yet exist, if in ruins; others known only by record; and still others totally gone out of history – lost even to legend.

The Forest roads were then but bridle paths, or trackways for the pack-horse; no fencing on either side; the narrow list of trodden ground running centrally between wide borderings of grass-grown sward; so that the traveller, if a horseman, had the choice of soft turf for the hoofs of his roadster. Only on the main routes between the larger towns, and those going outward, was there much traffic. The bye-roads had all the character of green lanes, narrow, but now and then debouching into glades, and openings of larger area, where the small Forest sheep – progeny of the Welsh mountaineers – browsed upon pasture, spare and close-cropped, in the companionship of donkeys, and perchance a deer, or it might be a dozen, moving among them in amiable association. The sheep and the donkeys are there still, but the deer, alas! are gone. Many birds that built their nests in the Forest trees, or soared above, are there no more. The eagle makes not now its eyrie in the Coldwell Rocks or soars over Symonds’ Yat; even the osprey is but rarely seen pursuing its finny prey in the lower waters of either Wye or Severn. Still, the falconidae are to this day represented in the Forest district by numerous species, by the kite and kestrel; the buzzard, Common, Rough-legged, and Honey; by the goshawk and sparrow-hawk; the hobby and harriers; and if last, not least, in estimation, the graceful diminutive merlin.

Birds of bright feathers, too, still flit through the Forest’s trees; the noisy jay, the gaudy, green woodpecker, and the two spotted species; with the kingfisher of cerulean hue; while its glades are gladdened by the sweet song of the thrush, the bolder lay of the blackbird; in springtide, the matchless melody of the nightingale – the joyous twittering of linnets and finches, mingling with the softer notes of the cushat and turtle-dove.

On that calm summer evening, when the clinking of swords on Mitcheldean-hill frightened the Forest birds, for a time stilling their voices, on another hill, some three miles distant from the scene of strife, the sweet songsters were being disturbed by intrusion upon their wild-wood domain. Not much disturbed, however, nor could the disturbers be justly characterised as intruders. Even the birds themselves might have been glad to see, and welcome among them, things of brightness and beauty far beyond their own. Women they were, or rather girls, both being under age – for there were but two of them. Sisters, moreover, though there was scarce a trait of resemblance to betray the relationship, either in features or complexion. She who seemed the elder was dark as a gipsy, the other a clear blonde, with hair showering over her shoulders, of hue as the beams of the sinking sun that shimmered upon it. For all, both were alike beautiful; in a different way, but unquestionably beautiful. And that they were sisters could be learnt by listening to their conversation: their names, also, as they addressed one another – that of the older, Sabrina; the younger, Vaga.

They could not be other than the pair of pretty birds spoken of by Sir Richard Walwyn; and, verily, he had not overrated them.

Chapter Four

Out for a Walk

Unlike in other respects, the sisters were unequal in height – the elder being the taller. With some difference in their dress, too, though both wore the ordinary outdoor costume of the day. It was rather graceful than splendid, for the hideous farthingale of the Elizabethan era was then going out of fashion, and their gowns, close-fitting in body and sleeves, displayed the outlines of figures that were perfection. Theirs were not charms that needed heightening by any adornment of dress. However plainly attired, there was in their air and carriage that grace which distinguishes the gentlewoman. Still, the younger was not without affectation of ornament. Her French hood of bright-coloured silk, looped under the chin, was so coifed as to show in a coquettish way her wealth of radiant hair, and beneath the gorget ruff gleamed a necklet of gold, with rings in her ears. There was embroidery, also, on the bodice and sleeves of her gown – doubtless the work of her own fair fingers. In those days ladies, even the grandest dames, were not above using the needle.

Sabrina’s hood, of a more sombre hue, was quite as becoming, and more suitable to her darker complexion. Her general attire, too, was appropriate to her character, which was of the staid, sober kind. Both wore strong, thick-soled shoes – being out for a walk – but neither these nor home-knitted stockings, which their short skirts permitted view of, could hinder the eye from beholding feet small and finely-shaped, with high instep and elegant tournure of ankles.

Good walkers they were, as could be told by the way they stepped along the Forest road; for they were on one. It was that which ran from Ruardean to Drybrook, and their faces were set in the direction of the latter. Between the two towns a high ridge is interposed, and this they were ascending from the Ruardean side. Before they had reached its summit, Vaga, coming abruptly to a stop, said: —

“Don’t you think we’ve walked far enough?”

“Why? Are you tired?”

“No – not that. But it occurs to me we may be wandering too far from home.”

That Sabrina was not wandering might have been told by her step, straightforward, as also her earnest glances, interrogating the road ahead at every turning. As these had been somewhat surreptitiously, though not timidly, given, the other had hitherto failed to notice them. Indeed, Vaga was not all the while by her side, nor keeping step with her. A huge dog of the Old English mastiff breed more occupied her attention; the animal every now and then making a rush at the browsing sheep, and sending them helter-skelter among the trees, his young mistress – for the dog was hers – clapping her hands with delight, and crying him on regardless of the mischief. It was only when no more of the little Welsh muttons were to be seen along the road that she joined her sister, and put in that plea for turning back.

“So far from home!” repeated Sabrina, with feigned surprise. “Why, we haven’t come quite two miles – not much over one.”

“True; but – ”

“But what? Are you afraid?”

“A little – I confess.”

“And the cause of your fear? Not wolves? If so, I can release you from it. It’s now quite half a century since there was a wolf seen in this Forest; and he – poor, lonely creature, the last of his race – was most unmercifully slain. The Foresters, being mostly of Welsh ancestry, have an hereditary hatred of the lupine species, I suppose from that mischance which befel the infant Llewellyn.” Vaga laughed, as she rejoined: – “Instead of having a fear of wolves, I’d like to see one just now. Hector, I’m sure, would show fight; ay, and conquer it, too, as did the famed Beth-Gelert his. Wouldn’t you, old Hec? Ay! that you would.”

At which the mastiff, rearing up, set his paws against her breast to receive the caressess extended; and, after these being given him, scampered off again in search of more sheep.

“Then what are you afraid of?” asked Sabrina, “Ghosts? There are none of them in the Forest either. If there were, no danger of their showing themselves by daylight, and we’ll be back home long before the sun goes down. Ha, ha, ha!”

It was as unusual for the older of the sisters to talk in such a light strain as it was for the younger to speak otherwise. Just then each had a reason for this reversion of their rôles.

Further questioned as to the cause of her fear, Vaga made answer, saying, —

“You’re merry, sister Sab, and I’m right glad to see you so. But what I meant isn’t a matter for jest; instead, something to be really alarmed about.”

“When you’ve told me what it is, I’ll give my opinion upon it. If neither wolves nor ghosts, what can it be? Bipeds or quadrupeds?”

“Bipeds, and of the sort most to be dreaded – brutal men.”

“Oh! that’s it. But what men are there about here deserving to be so characterised?”

“None about here, I hope and believe. But you know, sister, what’s going on all around the Forest: those mobs of lawless fellows down at Monmouth and Lydney. Suppose some of them to be coming this way and meet us?”

“I don’t suppose it, and needn’t. The malignants of Monmouth and Lydney are not likely to be upon this road. If they did, ’twould be at their peril. The men of Ruardean and Drybrook are of a different sort – the right sort. Should we meet any of them, though they may be a little rough in appearance, they won’t be rude. No true Forester ever is to a woman, whether lady or not. That they leave to the foreign elements Sir John Wintour has brought to Lydney, and the so-called Cavaliers on the Monmouth side – those braggarts of their blood and gallant bearing, most of them the veriest scum of the country, its gamesters and tapsters, the sweepings of the alehouse and stable! Cavaliers, indeed! who know not politeness to man nor respect for woman; care neither for national honour nor social decency!”

The enlightened young lady spoke with a warmth bordering upon indignation. With truth, too, as might one of her sort now about Tories and Jingoes. But, alas! now there are but few of her sort, youthful and enthusiastic in the cause of liberty; instead, ancient maidens of wealth and title, some of whose ancestors trod the stage playing at charity for the sake of popularity; patronising play-actors and endowing homes for strayed dogs! showing a shameless sympathy with the foul murdering Turk and his red-handed atrocities; last and latest of all, having the effrontery – impertinent as unfeminine – to counsel, ay, dictate, political action to England’s people, telling them how they should cast their votes!

What a contrast between their doings and the sayings and sentiments of that young Forest girl – all that lies between the mean and the noble!

“But,” she went on, in reference to the gentlemen of the gaming-house and hostelry tap-room, “we needn’t fear meeting them here, nor anywhere through the Forest. The Foresters – brave fellows – are for the Parliament almost to a man. Should we encounter any of them on our walk, I’ll answer for their good behaviour and kind-heartedness – something more, if knowing who we are. Father is a favourite with them for having taken their side against the usurpations of Wintour; though they liked him before that, and I’m proud of their doing so.”

“Oh! so am I, Sabrina. I’m as fond of our dear Foresters as you. It isn’t of them I had any fear. But, apart from all that, I think it’s time we turn our steps homeward. We’re surely now two miles from Hollymead; and see! the sun’s hastening to go down behind the Welsh hills.”

While so delivering herself, she faced round, the Welsh hills being behind their backs as they walked towards Drybrook.

“Hasten as it likes,” rejoined Sabrina, “it can’t get down for at least another hour. That will give us ample time to go on to the top of the hill and back to Hollymead before supper; which last, if I mistake not, is the chief cause of your anxiety to be at home.”

“For shame, Sabrina! You know it isn’t – the last thing in my thoughts.”

Sabrina did know that; knew, also, she was not speaking her own thoughts, but using subterfuge to conceal them. It was herself had proposed the stroll she seemed so desirous of continuing. To her its termination would not be satisfactory without attaining the summit of the ridge whose slope they were ascending.

Thrown back by what her younger sister had said, but still determined to proceed, without giving the true reason, she bethought herself of one, false though plausible.

“Well, Vag,” she laughingly pursued, “I was only jesting, as you know. But there’s one thing I hate to do – never could do, that’s to half climb a hill without going on to its top. It seems like breaking down or backing out, and crying ‘surrender,’ – which our dear father has taught us never to do. Up to the summit yonder is but a step now. It won’t take us ten minutes more to reach it; besides, I want to see something I haven’t set eyes on for a long while – that grand valley through which meanders my namesake, Sabrina. And looking back from there, you can also feast your eyes on that in which wanders yours, Vaga, capricious like yourself. In addition,” she added, not heeding her sister’s shrug of the shoulders, “we’ll there get a better view of a glorious sunset that’s soon to be over the Hatteral Hills; and the twilight after will give us ample time to get home before the supper table be set. So, why should you hinder me – to say nothing of yourself – from indulging in a little bit of aesthetics?”