back. “I preferred a wettin g to a whipping from the rascals. So of
your charity let me land here, or my horse may drown.”
“Who are you, then?” asked the farmer cautiously.
“A young doctor of Queen’s College,” he answered. “And with every
cause to hate the folk behind me.”
The farmer immediately came down from the bank and pointed out the
best spot for landing, which was no sooner accomplished than Doctor Syn
was asking which was the best bridge to cross in order to come upon the
road leading past the gates of Iffley Court, and on the way to Oxford.
‘I wish to have the laugh of them from the safe side of their locked
gates,” he said. “Aye, and before they have discovered how I have
tricked them, too,” he added.
For this reason of haste, re refused the farmer’s offer o f a stable
for his horse and grooming, while he should dry his clothes by the
kitchen fire, and himself with a warming drink.
But for all his haste, the farmer insisted on rubbing down the horse
with a wisp of grass, and as he did so he talked. “I’ll show you the
way beyond the house. You can gallop it in three minutes, while they’ll
be hunting you in the grounds, or waiting for you to break cover.
You’ll reach Iffley gates before that rogue you knocked into the Isis.
I’ll do anything against them ov er there. I have cause enough to hate
them. Lend me your ear, for my wife is coming down the meadow, and what
I would say is her grief.”
Thereupon he quickly whispered a foul story of seduction which the
Squire of Iffley had carried out against their daughter. She had been
taken across the river by boat, and sent back the next morning with
money stitched into her clothing. At the end of this sad story the man
chuckled grimly:
“But my revenge is coming, and little do they know how I am going to
strike. I have planned with some cunning.”
- 20 -
“It seems to me, then,” said Doctor Syn, “that it were a good thing for
the neighbourhood if this scoundrel should be removed to the place in
which he rightly belongs.”
“Aye, sir,” replied the farme r. “And that is where I wish him, and
I’ll help him there too. The deepest Hell.”
“The same place to which I was referring,” nodding the parson dryly.
“Well, keep your ears open for immediate gossip concerning him, and you
may find that I have taken the responsibility of sending him there from
your shoulders.”
“Don’t rob me of revenge. I live for it,” pleaded the man. “Let me
be some help to you.”
“The time is not yet ripe. But soon I may ask your help,” and with a
wave of his hand and still dripping wet, Doctor Syn cantered out through
the farmyard and galloped up the road to the bridge.
The farmer was right. He reached the gates in less than three
minutes, but drew rein ere he came abreast of them, walking his horse
along the grass footpath to avoid the noise.
But so much noise was the Squire of Iffley making with his curses and
his riding-crop upon backs of hounds and stablemen that no one heard
the rider approach or saw him peer through the gates with a grin. In the
centre of the dr ive stood Tappitt, lashing out freely with his whip.
Some half-dozen stablemen armed with cudgels and whips were staring up
the drive.
“I tell you,” cried the Squire, “that he can only get out this way.
The coward is hiding in the trees somewhere. Loose those mastiffs and
let ‘em rout him out. He can’t get out of locked gates, or jump the
wall.”
“I’m afraid he has got out all the same,” laughed Doctor Syn.
The Squire swung around with an oath, and stared at the rider through
the gates.
“How the devil—” he began.
But Doctor Syn cut him short.
“I may be a parson, but I am also a good judge of horseflesh. I
never ride a horse who cannot jump. But, my faith, the Isis is a broad
ditch. However, a good horse is a good horse. Tomorrow? At noon? The
attorney, the ladies and myself will await you at St. Giles’. Good day.
I’m sorry I cannot stay longer to enjoy your sport and hospitality, but
we tutors are hard-worked.”
And digging his heels in hard, Doctor Syn let his horse out into a
full gallop towards Oxford.
- 21 -
Chapter 4
The Challenge
Just before noon on the following day Doctor Syn, Tony Cobtree, and
the Spanish mother and daughter awaited the arrival of the Squire of
Iffley.
White Friars, in which Doctor Syn had taken lodging for the ladies,
was a pleasantly situated house with windows overlooking St. Giles’
market. The Annual Fair was in full swing. Hundreds of merry-makers
jostled each other good-humouredly to get to the various booths of
entertainment and the gaily decorated stalls. From every street people
were hurrying to swell the crowd.
With one arm encircling Imogene’s waist, Doctor Syn leaned from the
open window enjoying the scene.
“Our visitor from Iffley will be hard put to it in making his way
through this lot,” he laughed.
Antony Cobtree, who was seated at a table with the Senora, looked up
from the legal papers he had been arranging.
“You seem very sanguine that he’ll come,” he answered. “For my part,
I think he will not dare to show his face. The rascal has too many
enemies amongst the townsfolk. When you made the appointment, you
forgot the Fair, Christopher, and I am willing to lay you a guinea that
he will not have the courage to swagger his way through that crowd.”
“The bully is not without courage,” replied Syn. “And I still think
he will come.”
“Are you willing, then, to lose your guinea?” asked the young lawyer.
“I rather fear you would lose yours,” laughed the Doctor. “There’s a
coach just turning into the Market, and I can see the Iffley arms on the
panel. The coachman seems to have as little regard for the crowd as his
master has, for he’s lashing out freely with his long whip, while our
bully is poking his cane at them through the window. Come and see.
There will be trouble, I think.”
Although the plunging horses had cleared a space with their hoofs,
the crowd was so densely packed that those nearest to the coach could
not press back out of reach from the lashings of the long whip, and the
coachman standing up on his box fiercely struck at all within reach.
Angry men were rushing the coach doors, but right and left the heavy
knob of the Squire’s long cane kept striking, and the oaths that
followed each sickening thud proclaimed the fact that he had scored a
hit.
“You idle dogs!” shouted the Squire. “Must I teach you to give way
for your betters? If you want a lesson, I will give you one.”
At this there was a growling protest from the crowd, and a woman’s
voice rang out with, “What happened to Betty Dale, the girl at Iffley
Mill?”
“Aye, and a score of other poor lasses like Esther Sommers,” cried
another.
“And he dares drive his cattle into St. Giles!” sang out a man.
The Squire flung open the door of the coach and shouted to the
footman to get down and lead the near horse, which was still plunging.
Leaving his cane to the coach, he then drew his sword and faced his
assailants. They shrank back before the naked steel. They well knew