The messenger, used to the stifled atmosphere of Courts until this trouble with the Parliament arrived, was amazed by the downright, free-wind air the Squire of Nappa carried. It tickled his humour, tired as he was, that Metcalf should think the King himself knew every detail of his country, and every corner of it that bred white horses, or roan, or chestnut. At Skipton-in-Craven, of course, they knew the dales from end to end; and he was here because Sir John Mallory, governor of the castle there, had told him the Metcalfs of Nappa were slow to leave the beaten tracks, but that, once roused, they would not budge, or falter, or retreat.
"The King needs every Metcalf and his white horse. He sent me with that message to you, Squire."
"About when does he need us?" asked Metcalf guardedly.
"Oh, away with you! There’s all my corn to be gathered in. I’ll come nearer the back end o’ the year, if the King can bide till then. By that token, you’re looking wearied out, you and your horse. Come indoors, man, and we’ll talk the matter over."
The messenger was nothing loath. At Skipton they had given an importance to the Metcalf clan that he had not understood till now. This was the end of to-day’s journey, and his sole errand was to bring the six score men and horses into the good capital of Craven.
"I ask no better cheer, sir. Can you stable the two of us for the night? My little grey mare is more in need of rest than I am."
Christopher, the six-foot baby of the clan, ran forward to the mare’s bridle; and he glanced at his father, because the war in his blood was vehement and lusty, and he feared the old check of discipline.
"Is it true, sir?" he asked the messenger. "Does the King need us? I’ve dreamed of it o’ nights, and wakened just to go out and tend the land. I’m sick of tending land. Is it true the King needs us?"
The messenger, old to the shams and false punctilios of life, was dismayed for a moment by this clean, sturdy zest. Here, he told himself, was a cavalier in the making—a cavalier of Prince Rupert’s breed, who asked only for the hazard.
"It is true that the King needs a thousand such as you," he said drily. "Be good to my little mare; I trust her to you, lad."
And in this solicitude for horseflesh, shown twice already, the messenger had won his way already into the favour of all Metcalfs. For they loved horses just a little less than they loved their King.