human
Give you good-day, sir. I was riding to seek aid from you.
gpt
The devil you were, growled the other.
human
The man sups lean who trusts to my help, Graham. Knaresborough’s in other hands since—since Marston.
gpt
It would be. I had forgotten that. But you’re here.
human
What is your need, lad?
gpt
A few men to help me, over at Norton Conyers. I rode to ask if you could lend them me.
human
All of us, if we’re needed. We were jesting on the road here, for lack of other occupation. What is it? But, first, is your uncle safe—tough Reginald Graham? I love him as I love the steep rock-face of Knaresborough.
gpt
It was this way. My uncle would have me near him at Marston. We were with Rupert on the right wing, and were close behind one of the Riding Metcalfs—I know not which, for they’re all big men and as like as two peas in a pod—and saw him cut Cromwell through the throat. We were together when we broke the Roundheads and pursued too far. It was when we came to the ditch again, and found Leslie there with his Scots, that I lost Sir Reginald. I took a wound or two in the stampede that followed, and was laid by in a little farmstead near Wilstrop Wood. The good-wife was kind to me—said she had lost a bairn of her own not long since, trampled down by flying horsemen at the gate.
human
Ay, lad; but why d’ye not get forward with your news of Sir Reginald?
gpt
Because I cannot trust myself to speak of him without some folly in my throat. Give me time, sir—give me time. I got about again in a day or two, and stumbled home somehow to Norton Conyers. And I—I met a black procession—all like a nightmare, it was—journeying to the kirkyard. So I joined them; and one man nudged another, and asked who this was coming in his tatters to the burial without mourning-gear. And I pointed to my wounds and laughed. ’Mourning-gear enough,’ said I. ’Mourners go in blood and tatters since Marston.’ And then, they tell me, I fell, and lay where I fell. That was all I knew, till I got up next day with all my limbs on fire.