"What would you. We were caught by Somerset like deer in a buck-
stall. Here! Give me a cup of ale, I can scarce speak for chill."
He sank upon the settle as one quite worn out. The ale was brought
by some one, and he drank a long draught, while, at a sign from
Ridley, one of the serving-men began to draw off his heavy boots and
greaves, covered with frosted mud, snow, and blood, all melting
together, but all the time he talked, and the hearers remained
stunned and listening to what had hardly yet penetrated their
understanding. Lady Whitburn had collapsed into her own chair, and
was as still as the rest.
He spoke incoherently, and Ridley now and then asked a question, but
his fragmentary narrative may be thus expanded.
All had, in Yorkist opinion, gone well in London. Henry was in the
power of the White Rose, and had actually consented that Richard of
York should be his next heir, but in the meantime Queen Margaret had
been striving her utmost to raise the Welsh and the Border lords on
behalf of her son. She had obtained aid from Scotland, and the
Percies, the Dacres of Gilsland, and many more, had followed her
standard. The Duke of York and Earl of Salisbury set forth to
repress what they called a riot, probably unaware of the numbers who
were daily joining the Queen. With them went Lord Whitburn, hoping
thence to return home, and his son Robert, still a squire of the
Duke's household.
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