It was just about that same hour that Mr. Wilding, saddle-worn and dust-clogged in every pore, rode into Bridgwater, and made his way to the sign of The Ship in the High Street, overlooking the Cross where Trenchard was lodged. His friend was absent – possibly gone with his men to the sermon Ferguson was preaching to the army in the Castle Fields. Having put up his horse, Mr. Wilding, all dusty as he was, repaired straight to the Castle to report himself to Monmouth.
He was informed that His Majesty was in council. Nevertheless, urging that his news was of importance, he begged to be instantly announced. After a pause, he was ushered into a lofty, roomy chamber where, in the fading daylight, King Monmouth sat in council with Grey and Wade, Matthews, Speke, Ferguson, and others. At the foot of the table stood a sturdy country-fellow, unknown to Wilding. It was Godfrey, the spy, who was to act as their guide across Sedgemoor that night; for the matter that was engaging them just then was the completion of their plansfor the attack that was to be made that very night upon Feversham’s unprepared camp – a matter which had been resolved during the last few hours as an alternative preferable to the retreat towards Gloucester that had at first been intended.
Wilding was shocked at the change that had been wrought in Monmouth’s appearance during the few weeks since last he had seen him. His face was thin, pale, and haggard, his eyes were more sombre, and beneath them there were heavy, dark stains of sleeplessness and care, his very voice, when presently he spoke, seemed to have lost the musical timbre that had earlier distinguished it; it was grown harsh and rasping. Disappointment after disappointment, set down to ill-luck, but in reality the fruit of incompetence, had served to sour him. The climax had been reached in the serious desertions after the Philips Norton fight, and the flight of Paymaster Goodenough with the funds for the campaign. The company sat about the long oak table on which a map was spread, and Colonel Wade was speaking when Wilding entered.
On his appearance Wade ceased, and every eye was turned upon the messenger from London. Ferguson, fresh from his sermon, sat with elbows resting on the table, his long chin supported by his hands, his eyes gleaming sharply under the shadow of his wig which was pulled down in front to the level of his eyebrows.
It was the Duke who addressed Mr. Wilding, and the latter’s keen ears were quick to catch the bitterness that underlay his words.
“We are glad to see you, sir; we had not looked to do so again.”
“Not looked to do so, Your Gr… Majesty!” he echoed, plainly not understanding, and it was observed that he stumbled over the Duke’s new title.
“We had imagined that the pleasures of the town were claiming your entire attention.”
Wilding looked from one to the other of the men before him, and on the face of all he saw a gravity that amounted to disapproval of him.
“The pleasures of the town?” said he, frowning, and again – “the pleasures of the town? There is something in this that I fear I do not understand.”
“Do you bring us news that London has risen?” asked Grey suddenly.
“I would I could,” said Wilding, smiling wistfully. “Is it a laughing matter?” quoth Grey angrily.
“A smiling matter, my lord,” answered Wilding, nettled. “Your lordship will observe that I did but smile.”
“Mr. Wilding,” said Monmouth darkly, “we are not pleased with you.”
“In that case,” returned Wilding, more and more irritated, “Your Majesty expected of me more than was possible to any man.”
“You have wasted your time in London, sir,” the Duke explained. “We sent you thither counting upon your loyalty and devotion to ourselves. What have you done?”
“As much as a man could…” Wilding began, when Grey again interrupted him.
“As little as a man could,” he answered. “Were His Grace not the most foolishly clement prince in Christendom, a halter would be your reward for the fine things you have done in London.”
Mr. Wilding stiffened visibly, his long white face grew set, and his slanting eyes looked wicked. He was not a man readily moved to anger, but to be greeted in such words as these by one who constituted himself the mouthpiece of him for whom Wilding had incurred ruin was more than he could bear with equanimity; that the risks to which he had exposed himself in London – where, indeed, he had been in almost hourly expectation of arrest and such short shrift as poor Disney had – should be acknowledged in such terms as these, was something that turned him almost sick with disgust. To what manner of men had he leagued himself? He looked Grey steadily between the eyes.
“I mind me of an occasion on which such a charge of foolish clemency might, indeed – and with greater justice – have been levelled against His Majesty,” said he and his calm was almost terrible.
His lordship grew pale at the obvious allusion to Monmouth’s mild treatment of him for his cowardice at Bridport, and his eyes were as baleful as Wilding’s own at that moment. But before he could speak, Monmouth had already answered Mr. Wilding.
“You are wanting in respect to us, sir,” he admonished him.
Mr. Wilding bowed to the rebuke in a submission that seemed ironical. The blood mounted slowly to Monmouth’s cheeks.
“Perhaps,” put in Wade, who was anxious for peace, Mr. Wilding has some explanation to offer us of his failure.”
His failure! They took too much for granted. Stitched in the lining of his boot was the letter from the Secretary of State. To have achieved that was surely to have achieved something.
“I thank you, sir, for supposing it,” answered Wilding, his voice hard with self-restraint; “I have indeed an explanation.”
“We will hear it,” said Monmouth condescendingly, and Grey sneered, thrusting out his bloated lips.
“I have to offer the explanation that Your Majesty is served in London by cowards; self-sufficient and self-important cowards who have hindered me in my task instead of helping me. I refer particularly to Colonel Danvers.”
Grey interrupted him. “You have a rare effrontery, sir – aye, by God! Do you dare call Danvers a coward?”
“It is not I who so call him; but the facts. Colonel Danvers has run away.
“Danvers gone?” cried Ferguson, voicing the consternation of all.
Wilding shrugged and smiled; Grey’s eye was offensively upon him. He elected to answer the challenge of that glance. “He has followed the illustrious example set him by other of Your Majesty’s devoted followers,” said Wilding.
Grey rose suddenly. This was too much. “I’ll not endure it from this knave!” he cried, appealing to Monmouth.
Monmouth wearily waved him to a seat; but Grey disregarded the command.
“What have I said that should touch your lordship?” asked Wilding, and, smiling sardonically, he looked into Grey’s eyes.
“It is not what you have said. It is what you have inferred.”
“And to call me knave!” said Wilding in a mocking horror.
The repression of his anger lent him a rare bitterness, and an almost devilishly subtle manner of expressing wordlessly what was passing in his mind. There was not one present but gathered from his utterance of those five words that he did not hold Grey worthy the honour of being called to account for that offensive epithet. He made just an exclamatory protest, such as he might have made had a woman applied the term to him.
Grey turned from him slowly to Monmouth. “It might be well,” said he, in his turn controlling himself at last, “to place Mr. Wilding under arrest.”
Mr. Wilding’s manner quickened on the instant from passive to active anger.
“Upon what charge, sir?” he demanded sharply. In truth it was the only thing wanting that, after all that he had undergone, he should be arrested. His eyes were upon the Duke’s melancholy face, and his anger was such that in that moment he vowed that if Monmouth acted upon this suggestion of Grey’s he should not have so much as the consolation of Sunderland’s letter.
“You have been wanting in respect to us, sir,” the Duke answered him. He seemed able to do little more than repeat himself. “You return from London empty-handed, your task unaccomplished, and instead of a becoming contrition, you hector it here before us in this manner.” He shook his head. “We are not pleased with you, Mr. Wilding.” “But, Your Grace,” exclaimed Wilding, “is it my fault that your London agents had failed to organize the rising? That rising should have taken place, and it would have taken place had Your Majesty been more ably represented there.”
“You were there, Mr. Wilding,” said Grey with heavy sarcasm.
“Would it no’ be better to leave Mr. Wilding’s affair until afterwards?” suggested Ferguson at that moment. “It is already past eight, Your Majesty, and there be still some details of this attack to settle that your officers may prepare for it, whilst Mr. Newlington awaits Your Majesty to supper at nine.”