The White Gauntlet
“Ho, ho!” muttered Gregory Garth, speaking to himself, “message from his Majesty to Captain Scarthe! – Sir Marmaduke Wade! Bulstrode Park! What the ole Nick be all this about?”
“You know Sir Marmaduke Wade, do you not, good friend?”
“Well, Master Silk-and-Satin,” scornfully drawled the footpad, “without havin’ the pleasure o’ knowin’ you, or the honour o’ bein’ your good friend eyther, I think as how I mout say, that I does know somethin’ o’ that very gentleman, Sir Marmaduke Wade; though it be news to me that theer be such a individable as Captain Scarthe, either in the county o’ Bucks, or in the kingdom o’ England – to say nothin’ o’ a troop o’ King’s Kewrasseers being quartered at Bulstrode Park. All o’ that there be Greek to Greg’ry Garth.”
“Good friend! I assure you it’s nothing but the truth. Captain Scarthe and his troop have certainly arrived at Bulstrode Park by this time; and if you will only conduct me thither – ”
“Bah! that arn’t my bizness. Conduct yerself. Bulstrode Park aint a step from here. As to Captain Scarthe, or the King’s Kewrasseers, I shud n’t know eyther one nor t’other from a side o’ sole leather. If ye’ve got e’er a message, ye can hand it over to me, an’ along wi’ it whatever loose cash ye be carryin’ on your fine-clad carcass. Fork out!”
“Oh! sir; to my money you’re welcome – my watch also and the chain. But as you love our good king, let me ride on upon the errand, on which he has despatched me!”
“Maybe I don’t love ‘our good King,’ so much as ye think for, ye spangled flunkey! Come! out wi’ all ye’ve got, or these fellows’ll strip ye to the skin. Ne’er mind, boys! Keep yer ground; he an’t a-goin’ to be troublesome.”
“No, no, good friends. I promise you I shall not. I yield up everything. Here’s my purse. For your sakes I’m sorry there’s not more in it. Here’s my watch. I had it a present from our most gracious Queen. You see, sir, it’s very valuable?”
The footpad eagerly clutched at the timepiece; and, holding it between his great horny fingers, examined it under the light of the moon.
“It must be valleyable,” said he, turning it over and over. “It appears to be kivered all over wi’ preecious stones. A present from the Queen, ye say?”
“I had it from her majesty’s own hands.”
“Dang her for a French – . This be the way she spends our English money. She be a bigger robber than Greg’ry Garth – that she be – and ye can tell her I sayed so, the next time you ha’ the chance o’ palaverin’ to her. Go on! Emp’y your pockets o’ everything.”
“I’ve only this penknife; these tablets, and pencil – that’s all, I assure you.”
“What’s that glitterin’ thing,” asked the footpad, pointing to something the courtier appeared anxious to conceal, “as hangs about yer neck? Let’s have a squint at it?”
“That, sir, – that is a – a – a locket.”
“A locket; what be that?”
“Well, it’s – it’s – ”
“It be wonderful like a bit o’ a watch. What be inside o’ it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothin’. Then, what do you carry it for?”
“Oh, there is something inside; nothing of value, however; it’s only a lock of hair.”
“Only hair. A love-lock, I s’pose? Well, that arn’t o’ much valley sure enough – leastwise to me it arn’t – and yer may keep the hair. But I’ll trouble you for the case. It look like it mout pawn for somethin’. Quick, off wi’ it!”
The terrified courtier instantly complied with the demand – in his fright not even taking advantage of the permission granted him to preserve the precious love token; but delivering both lock and locket into the outstretched fingers of the footpad.
“O sir,” said he, in a supplicating tone, “that is everything – everything!”
“No it arn’t,” gruffly returned the robber, “you’ve got a niceish doublet thear – satin spick-span – trunks to match; boots an’ spurs o’ the first quality; a tidyish hat and feathers; an’ a sharpish toad-sticker by yer side. I doant partickler want any o’ these things for myself; but I’ve got a relation that I’d like to make ’em a present to. So, strip!”
“What, sir! would you send me naked on my errand? You forget that I’m the bearer of a message from the king?”
“No, daang me if I do; and daang the king, too! That ere’s potery for ye. I’ve heerd ye be fond o’ it at Court. I like prose better; and my prose be, dismount an’ strip.”
Notwithstanding the tone of raillery in which the footpad was pleased to express himself, the unfortunate courtier saw that he was all the while in serious earnest, and that there would be danger in resisting his demands.
Spite of his reluctance therefore, he was compelled to slide down from his saddle, and disrobe himself in the middle of the road.
Not until he stood stark naked, did the relentless robber suffer him to desist – leaving to him little else than his shirt and stockings!
“O sir! you will not mount me thus?” said the wretched man, appealing with upheld hands to the footpad. “Surely you will not send me in this guise – the bearer of a royal message? What a figure I should cut on horseback, without my boots – without my hat or doublet – without – ”
“Stash yer palaver!” cried Garth, who was busied making the cast-off clothes into a bundle. “Who said ye war goin’ to cut a figger a-horseback? Whar’s yer horse, I sh’d like to know?”
The courtier gave a doubting nod towards the steed.
“Oh!” responded the footpad, coolly continuing his task, “moat a been your horse ten minutes agone. He be myen now. I’ve been a-foot long enough, while you an’ yours ha’ been ridin’. It be my time to mount for a bit. That’s only fair turn an’ turn, ar’nt it?”
The dismounted messenger made no reply. Though surprise and terror had by this time well-nigh deprived him of his senses, he had enough left to admonish him, that all remonstrance would be idle. He said nothing, therefore; but stood with shivering frame and teeth chattering like castanets: for it chanced to be one of those chill autumnal nights, when the cold is felt almost as sensibly as in December.
The footpad took no further notice of him, until he had completed the binding of the bundle. Then straightening himself up, face to face with his victim, he surveyed him from head to foot with a half-quizzical, half serious look.
The latter at length predominated – as if some suspicious thought had come uppermost in his mind.
“Cowardly as ye be, ye king’s minion,” said he, addressing the trembling messenger in a tone of scornful bitterness, “thear mout be cunnin’ an’ mischief in ye. I’ll take care that ye doant go furder this night. Come along into the house here! Ye woant object to that – seein’ as ye’re so starved-like outside. Come along!”
And without waiting for either the assent or refusal of the individual thus solicited, the robber seized him by the wrist; and half led, half dragged, him over the threshold of the hovel.
Once inside the ruin, he proceeded to bind his unresisting victim with cords, which he had taken in along with him. He had plenty of light for his purpose: for a portion of the roof had fallen in, and the moonlight shone brightly upon the thatch-strewn floor.
Expert in the handling of ropes, his task was soon performed; and in a few minutes the King’s messenger stood with his arms bound behind his back, and his ankles lashed as tightly together, as if he had been a dangerous felon!
“Now,” said the robber, after securing the last loop, apparently to his satisfaction, “you woant come loose till somebody lets ye; and that arnt goin’ to be me. I ha’nt no wish to be cruel to ye – tho’ ye are a king’s flunkey – an’ as ye’ll be easier lyin’ down than stannin’ up, I’ll put you in that position.”
As he said this, he let go his hold, and permitted the unfortunate man to fall heavily upon the floor.
“Lie thear, Master Messenger, till somebody lifts ye. I’ll see to the deliverin’ o’ yer message. Good-night!”
And with a mocking laugh Gregory Garth strode back over the threshold – leaving the astounded traveller to reflections that were neither very lucid nor very pleasant.
After passing out of the hut, the footpad hastened to take his departure from the spot.
He led the steed of the messenger out into the middle of the road, and tied the bridle he had made to the cantle of the saddle. He then glided up to the near side of the horse; and caught hold of the withers – as if about to mount.
Something, however, caused him to hesitate; and an interval elapsed, without his making any effort to get into the saddle.
“Daangit, old partners!” cried he, at length – addressing himself to his band of dummies, whom he had been for sometime neglecting – “’twon’t do for us to part this fashion. If Greg’ry Garth are promoted to be a highwayman, he arn’t goin’ to look down on his pals o’ the path. No! Ye shall go long wi’ me, one an’ all. Though the hul o’ ye put thegither arnt worth this shinin’ ticker I’ve got in my fob, for all that I can make better use o’ ye, than leavin’ ye here to scare the crows o’ Jarret’s Heath. Come along, my boys! I’se boun’, this stout charger from the royal mews be able to carry the hul on us, an’ not think it much o’ a looad neyther. I’ll find room for all o’ ye – some on the crupper, and the rest on the withers. Come along then!”
Without waiting for any reply to his proposal, he glided around the edge of the opening: and, rapidly dismantling the dummies one after the other, he returned towards the horse with their ravished vestments.
Hanging the “old clo’” across both croup and withers – and there attaching them by strings – he at length climbed into the saddle lately occupied by the king’s messenger, and rode gleefully away.
Just as he cleared the crossing of the roads, the clock of Chalfont Saint Peter’s tolled the hour of midnight.
“Exact twelve!” exclaimed he, in a tone of congratulation. “Well! ’twur a close shave; but I’ve kep’ my word to Master Henry! If I had broke that, I could niver a looked him in the face again. Ha! Hear them old church bells! How sweet they sound on the air o’ the night! They mind me o’ the time, when I wur innocent child. Ring on! ring on! ye bells o’ Peter’s Chaffont! Ring on, an’ tell the world that Greg’ry Garth is biddin’ good-bye to the road!”
Volume One – Chapter Thirteen
Were the Chiltern Hills stripped of the timber, to this day screening a considerable portion of their surface, they would present a striking resemblance to those portions of the great North American Steppe, known in trapper-parlance as “rolling prairies.” With equal truthfulness might they be likened to the Ocean, after a great storm, when the waves no longer carry their foaming crests, and the undulations of the swell have, to a certain extent, lost their parallelism. If you can fancy the liquid element then suddenly transformed into solid earth, you will have a good idea of the “shape” of the Chilterns.
From time immemorial have these hills enjoyed a peculiar reputation. In the forward march of England’s agriculture, it was long ere their sterile soil tempted the touch of the plough; and even at this hour vast tracts of their surface lie unreclaimed – in “commons” covered with heath, furze, or forests of beechwood.
At various periods of our history, their fame has not been of the fairest. Their wild woods, while giving shelter to the noble stag, and other creatures of the chase, also served as a choice retreat for the outlaw and the robber; and in past times, it became necessary to appoint a “steward or warden,” with a body of armed attendants, to give safe-conduct to the traveller, passing through their limits. Hence the origin of that noted office – now happily a sinecure; though, unhappily, not the only sinecure of like obsolete utility in this grievously taxed land.
Near the eastern verge of the Chiltern country, is situated the noble park of Bulstrode. It is one of the most ancient inclosures in England – older than the invasion of the Norman; perhaps as old as the evacuation of the Roman. In the former epoch it was the scene of strife – as the remains of a Saxon encampment lying within its limits – with a singular legend attached – will testify.
Extending over an area of a thousand acres, there is scarce a rood of Bulstrode Park that could be called level ground – the camp enclosure, already mentioned, forming the single exception. The surface exhibits a series of smooth rounded hills, and undulating ridges, separated from each other by deep valley-like ravines – the concavities of the latter so resembling the convexities of the former, as to suggest the idea that the hills have been scooped out of the valleys, and placed in an inverted position beside them. The park itself offers a fair specimen of the scenery of the Chilterns – the ocean swell suddenly brought to a stand, the waves, and the “troughs” between, having lost their parallelism. The valleys traverse in different directions, here running into each other; there shallowing upward, or ending abruptly in deep romantic dells, thickly copsed with hawthorn, holly, or hazel – the favourite haunts of the nightingale. The ridges join each other in a similar fashion; or rise into isolated hills, so smoothly coped as to seem artificial. Belts of shrubbery and clumps of gigantic trees – elm, oak, beech, and chestnut – mottle the slopes, or crown their summits; while the spaces between exhibit a sward of that vivid verdure – only to be seen in the pastures and parks of England. Such was Bulstrode Park in the seventeenth century; such with but slight change, is it at the present day – a worthy residence for the noblest family in the land.
It is the morning of the fête arranged by Sir Marmaduke Wade – to celebrate the anniversary of his son’s birthday, and at the same time to commemorate his return to the paternal mansion.
The red aurora of an autumnal morning has given promise of a brilliant day; and as if to keep that promise, a golden sun, already some degrees above the horizon, is gradually mounting into a canopy of cloudless blue.
His beams striking obliquely through the foliage of the forest, fall with a subdued light upon the earth; but in the more open undulations of the park they have already kissed the dew from the grass; and the verdant turf seems to invite the footstep – like some vast carpet spread over the arena of the expected sports.
It is evident that the invitation of Sir Marmaduke had been extensively circulated, and accepted. On every road and path tending in the direction of his residence, and from a distance of many miles, groups of rustics in their gayest holiday dresses, have been seen from an early hour in the morning, proceeding towards the scene of the fête – old and young, fair and dark, comely and common-looking, all equally joyous and gleeful.
Within the lines of the old Saxon encampment a large company has assembled. There are thousands in all – some roaming over the ground, some seated under shady trees on the summit of the turf-grown moat. Here and there may be seen large numbers forming a “ring” – the spectators of some sport that is progressing in their midst.
Of sports there are many kinds carried on at the same time. Here is played the game of “balloon:” a huge leathern ball, inflated with hot air, and bandied about amidst a circle of players – the game being to keep the ball passing from one to the other.
There you may see another party engaged in a game of “bowls,” fashionable as the favourite of Royalty; and further on, a crowd clustered around a contest of “single-stick,” where two stout fellows are cudgelling one another, as if determined upon a mutual cracking of skulls – a feat, however, not so easy of accomplishment.
Not far off you may behold the gentler sport of “kiss in the ring,” where blue-eyed Saxon girls are pursued by their rustic beaux, and easily overtaken.
At other places you may witness a wrestling match, a game of foot-ball, or quoits, with “pitching the stone,” racing, leaping, and vaulting.
At a short distance off, and outside the encampment, may be seen an al fresco kitchen, on an extensive scale; where the servants of Sir Marmaduke are engaged in roasting immense barons of beef, and huge hogs cleft lengthwise. An hour or two later, and this spot will be the roost attractive of all.
Not alone does the peasant world appear in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade. Cavaliers picturesquely attired, in the splendid costumes of the time, along with high-born dames, are seen standing in groups over the ground. Some are spectators of the sports, though not a few of both sexes occasionally take part in them. The fête champètre is a fashionable mode of amusement where rank is, for the time, surrendered to the desire for simple enjoyment; and it is not altogether outré for the mistress of the mansion to mingle with her maidens in the “out-door dance,” nor the squire to take a hand at “single-stick,” or “bowls,” with his rustic retainer.
Even Royalty, in those days was accustomed to such condescension!
Such was the gay spectacle exhibited in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade, to celebrate the anniversary of that happy day that had given him a son and heir.
Volume One – Chapter Fourteen
The bells of Uxbridge were tolling the hour of noon. Scarthe’s Cuirassiers were still by the roadside inn, though in full armour, and each trooper standing by the side of his horse, ready to take saddle.
It was a late hour to begin their march; but they had been detained. The freshly rasped hoofs of the horses might declare the cause of the detention. The forges of Uxbridge had been called into requisition, for the shoeing of the troop.
There was no special need for haste. They had not far to go; and the duty upon which they were bent, could be entered into at any hour. At twelve they were all ready for the route.
“To horse!” was uttered in the usual abrupt tone of command; and at the same instant, the two officers were seen issuing from the doorway of the inn.
The clattering of steel, as the cuirassiers sprang to their saddles, could be heard on the calm air of the autumn noon, to the distance of a mile. The shopkeepers of Uxbridge heard it; and were only too glad when told its interpretation. All night long Scarthe’s royal swashbucklers had been swaggering through the streets, disturbing the tranquillity of their town, and leaving many a score unsettled.
No wonder they rejoiced, when that clinking of sabres, and clashing of cuisses, declared the departure of Captain Scarthe and his following from the hostelry of the Saracen’s Head.
Their men having mounted, the two officers betook themselves to their saddles, though with less alertness. The cornet seemed to have a difficulty in finding his stirrup; and, after he had succeeded in getting into his seat, it appeared an open question whether he should be able to keep it. Stubbs was intoxicated.
His superior officer was affected in a similar fashion, though to a less degree. At all events he did not show his tipsiness so palpably. He was able to mount into the saddle, without the hand of a helper; and when there, could hold himself upright. Habit may have given him this superiority over his comrade: for Scarthe was an old soldier, and Stubbs was not.
The carouse of the preceding night had commenced at the roadside inn – early in the evening.
The incident that had there occurred – not of the most comforting nature, either to Scarthe or his subaltern – had stimulated them to continue at their cups – only transferring the scene to the inns of Uxbridge. A stray cavalier or two, picked up in the town, had furnished them with the right sort of associates for a midnight frolic; and it was not till the blue light of morn was breaking over the meadows of the Colne, that the wearied roisterers staggered across the old bridge, and returned to their temporary quarters at the roadside inn.
While the horses of the troop were in the hands of the farriers, the two officers had passed an hour or two, tossing upon a brace of the best beds the inn afforded; and it was close upon twelve at noon when Scarthe awoke, and called for a cup of burnt sack to steady his nerves – quivering after the night’s carouse.
A slight breakfast sufficed for both captain and cornet. This despatched, they had ordered the troop to horse, and were about to continue their march.
“Comrades!” cried Scarthe, addressing himself to his followers, as soon as he felt fairly fixed in the saddle. “We’ve been spending the night in a nest of rebels. This Uxbridge is a town of traitors – Quakers, Dissenters and Puritans – alike disloyal knaves.”
“They are by Gec-gec-ged!” hiccuped Stubbs, trying to keep himself upright on his horse.
“They are; you speak true, captain – they’re all you say,” chorussed several of the troopers, who had come away without settling their scores.
“Then let them go to the devil;” muttered Scarthe, becoming alike regardless of Uxbridge and its interests. “Let’s look to what’s before us. No – not that. First what’s behind us. No pretty girls in the inn here. Ah! that’s a pity. Never mind the women, so long as there’s wine. Hillo, Old Boniface! Once more set your taps a-flowing. What will you drink, vagabonds? Beer?”
“Ay, ay – anything you like, noble captain.”
“Beer, Boniface; and for me more sack. What say you, Stubbs?”
“Sack, sa-a-ck!” stammered the cornet. “Burnt sa-a-ck. Nothing like it, by Ge-ged!”
“Who pays?” inquired the landlord, evidently under some apprehension as to the probability of this ultimate order being for cash.
“Pays, knave!” shouted Scarthe, pulling a gold piece from his doublet, and shieing it in the landlord’s face. “Do you take the king’s cuirassiers for highway robbers? The wine – the wine! Quick with it, or I’ll draw your corks with the point of my sword.”
With the numerous staff, which an inn in those times could afford to maintain, both the beer and the more generous beverage were soon within reach of the lips of those intended to partake of them. The national drink was brought first; but out of deference to their officers, the men refrained partaking of it, till the sack was poured into the cups.
Scarthe seized the goblet presented to him and raising it aloft, called out: —
“The King!”
“The King, by Ge-ged,” seconded Stubbs.
“The King – the King!” vociferated the half hundred voices of their followers – the bystanders echoing the phrase only in faint murmuring.
“Goblets to the ground!” commanded the captain – at the same time tossing his own into the middle of the road.
The action was imitated by every man in the troop – each throwing away his empty vessel, till the pavement was thickly strewn with pots of shining pewter.
“Foorward – ma-r-ch!” cried Scarthe, giving the spur to his charger; and with a mad captain at their head, and a maudlin cornet in the rear, the cuirassiers filed out from the inn; and took the road in the direction of Red Hill.
Despite the wine within him, the captain of the cuirassiers, was at that moment, in a frame of mind, anything but contented. One of his reasons for having drunk so deeply, was to drown the recollection – yet rankling in his bosom – of the insult he fancied himself to have suffered on the preceding night, and which he further fancied to have lowered him in the estimation of his followers. Indeed, he knew this to be the case; for as he rode onward at the head of his troop, his whole thoughts were given to the black horseman, and the mode by which he might revenge himself on that mysterious individual.
Scarthe was on the way to country quarters – near which he had been told, the black horseman had his home – and he comforted himself with the thought, that should these prove dull, he would find amusement, in the accomplishment of some scheme, by which his vengeance might be satisfied.
Could his eye at that moment have penetrated the screen of foliage rising above the crest of Red Hill, he might have seen behind it, the man he meant to injure – mounted on that sable steed from which he derived his sobriquet. He might have seen him suddenly wheel back from the bushes, and gallop off in the direction in which he and his cuirassiers were marching – towards Bulstrode Park – the residence of Sir Marmaduke Wade.
Though Scarthe saw not this, his midday march was not performed without his meeting with an incident – one worth recording, even for its singularity; though it was otherwise of significant interest to the cuirassier captain.