The White Gauntlet
There were several of the girls also in character costumes. “Maid Marian,” the “Queen of the May,” and other popular personages of the rural fancy, were personified.
The morris dancers soon became the centre of general attraction. The humbler guests of Sir Marmaduke – having partaken of the cheer which he had so liberally provided for them – had returned into the camp; and now stood clustered around the group of Terpsichoreans, with faces expressing the liveliest delight.
Balloons, bowls, wrestling, and single-stick were for the time forsaken: for the morris dance was tacitly understood, and expected, to be the chief attraction of the day.
It is true, that only peasant girls were engaged in it; but among these was more than one remarkable for a fine figure and comely face – qualities by no means rare in the cottage-homes of the Chilterns.
Two were especially signalised for their good looks – the representatives of Maid Marian and the Queen of the May – the former a dark brunette of the gipsy type – while the queen was a contrasting blonde, with hazel eyes, and hair of flaxen hue.
Many a young peasant among their partners in the dance – and also in the circle of spectators – watched the movements of these rustic belles with interested eyes. Ay, and more than one cavalier might have been observed casting sly glances towards Maid Marian, and the Queen of the May.
While those were bestowing their praises upon the peasant girls, in stereotyped phrases of gallantry, some of the stately dames standing around might have found cause to be jealous; and some were so.
Was Marion Wade among the number?
Alas! it was even so. New as the feeling was, and slight the incident that called it forth, that fell passion had sprung up within her heart. It was the first time it had been touched with such a sting: for it was her first love, and too recent to have met with a reverse. A pang never felt before, she scarce comprehended its nature. She only knew its cause. Holtspur was standing in the front rank of spectators – close to the ring in which the morris dancers were moving. As the beautiful Bet Dancey – who represented Maid Marian – went whirling voluptuously through the figures of the dance, her dark gipsy eyes, gleaming with amorous excitement, seemed constantly turned upon him. Marion Wade could not fail to observe the glance: for it was recklessly given. It was not this, however, that caused that pain to spring up within her bosom. The forest maiden might have gazed all day long upon the face of Henry Holtspur, without exciting the jealousy of the lady – had her gaze failed to elicit a return. But once, as the latter turned quickly towards him, she fancied she saw the glance of the girl given back, and the passionate thought reciprocated!
A peculiar pang, never felt before, like some poisoned dart, pierced to the very core of her heart – almost causing her to cry out. In the rustic belle she recognised a rival!
The pain was not the less poignant, from its being her first experience of it. On the contrary, it was, perhaps, more so; and from that moment Marion Wade stood, cowed and cowering, with blanched brow – her blue eye steadily fixed upon the countenance of Henry Holtspur – watching with keen anxiety every movement of his features.
The dark doubt that had arisen in her mind was not to be resolved in that hour. Scarce had she entered upon her anxious surveillance when an incident arose, causing the morris dance to be suddenly interrupted.
Amidst the shouts, laughter, and cheering that accompanied the spectacle, only a few who had strayed outside the enclosure of the camp, caught the first whisperings of a strange, and to them, inexplicable sound. It appeared to proceed from some part of the road – outside the main entrance of the camp; and resembled a continued tinkling of steel implements, mingled with the hoof-strokes of a multitude of horses – not going at will, but ridden with that cadenced step that betokens the passage of a squadron of cavalry.
They who first heard it, had scarce time to make this observation – much less to communicate their thoughts to the people inside the camp – when another sound reached their ears – equally significant of the movement of mounted men. It was the call of a cavalry bugle commanding the “Halt.”
At the same instant the hoof-strokes ceased to be heard; and, as the last notes of the bugle died away in the distant woods, there was an interim of profound silence, broken only by the soft cooing of the wood-quest, or the shriller piping of the thrush.
Equally within the camp was the silence complete. The cheers had been checked, and the laughter subdued, at that unusual sound. The ears of all were bent to listen for its repetition; while all eyes were turned in the direction whence it appeared to have proceeded.
There was something ominous in the sudden interruption of the sports, by a sound unexpected, as it was ill understood; and some faces, but the moment before beaming with joy, assumed a serious aspect.
“Soldiers!” exclaimed several voices in the same breath; while the crowd, forsaking the spectacle of the morris dance, rushed up to the top of the moat, and stood listening as before.
Once more came the clear tones of the cavalry trumpet, this time directing the “Forward”; and, before the signal had ceased to echo over the undulations of the park, the first files of a squadron of cuirassiers were seen passing between the massive piers of the main entrance, and advancing along the drive that led towards the mansion.
File followed file in regular order – each horseman, as he debouched from under the shadow of the trees, appearing to become a-blaze through the sudden flashing of the sunbeams upon the plates of his polished armour.
As the troop, riding by two’s, had half advanced into the open ground, and still continued advancing, it presented the appearance of some gigantic snake gliding in through the gateway – the steel armour representing its scales, and the glittering files answering to the vertebrae of the reptile.
When all had ridden inside, and commenced winding up the slope that conducted to the dwelling, still more perfect was this resemblance to some huge serpent – beautiful but dangerous – crawling slowly on to the destruction of its victim.
“The cuirassiers of the king!”
There were many in the camp who needed not this announcement to make known to them the character of the new comers. The cuirass covering the buff doublet – the steel cap and gorget – the cuisses on the thighs – the pauldrons protecting the shoulders – the rear and vam-braces on the arms – all marked the mailed costume of the cuirassier; while the royal colours, carried in front by the cornet of the troop, proclaimed them the cuirassiers of the king.
By the side of this officer rode another, whose elegant equipments and splendidly caparisoned horse announced him to be the officer in command – the captain.
“The cuirassiers of the king!” What wanted they in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade? Or what was their business at his mansion: for thither were they directing their march?
This question was put by more than one pair of lips; but by none less capable of answering it than those of Sir Marmaduke himself.
The spectacle of the morris dance had been altogether abandoned. Both actors and spectators had rushed promiscuously towards the moat – on that side fronting to the park – and having taken stand upon its crest, were uttering exclamations of astonishment, or exchanging interrogatories about this new interlude not mentioned in the programme of the entertainments.
At this moment the bugle once more brayed out the “Halt”; and, in obedience to the signal, the cuirassiers again reined up.
As by this the head of the troop had arrived opposite to the old camp – and was at no great distance from it – some words that passed between the two officers, could be heard distinctly by the people standing upon the moat.
“I say, Stubbs,” called out the captain, spurring a length or two out from the troop, and pointing towards the camp, “What are those rustics doing up yonder? Can you guess?”
“Haven’t the most distant idea,” answered the individual addressed.
“They appear to be in their holiday toggery – best bibs and tuckers. Is’t a Whitsun-ale or a May-making?”
“Can’t be either,” rejoined Stubbs. “Isn’t the season. No, by Ged!”
“By the smock of Venus! there appear to be some pretty petticoats among them? Mayn’t be such dull quarters after all.”
“No, by Ged! Anything but dull, I should say.”
“Ride within speaking distance; and ask them, what the devil they are doing.”
The cornet, thus commanded, clapped spurs to his horse; and, after galloping within fifty paces of the fosse, pulled up.
“What the devil are you doing?” cried he, literally delivering the order with which he had been entrusted.
Of course to such a rude interrogatory, neither Sir Marmaduke, nor any of those standing around him, vouchsafed response. Some of the common people in the crowd, however, called out – “We’re merry-making. It’s a fête – a birthday celebration.”
“Oh! that’s it,” muttered the cornet, turning and riding back to communicate the intelligence to his superior officer.
“Let’s go up, and make their acquaintance,” said the latter, as Stubbs delivered his report. “We shall reconnoitre these rustic beauties of Bucks, giving them the advantage of their holiday habiliments. What say you, Stubbs?”
“Agreeable,” was the laconic reply of the cornet.
“Allons! as they say in France. We may find something up yonder worth climbing the hill for. As they also say in France, nous verrons!”
Ordering the troopers to dismount, and stand by their horses – their own being given to a brace of grooms – the two officers, in full armour as they were, commenced ascending the slope that led to the Saxon encampment.
Volume One – Chapter Eighteen
“So, good, people!” said Scarthe, as soon as he and his companion had entered within the enclosure, “holding holiday are you? An admirable idea in such fine weather – with the azure sky over your heads, and the green trees before your faces. Pray don’t let us interrupt your Arcadian enjoyment. Go on with the sports! I hope you have no objection to our becoming spectators?”
“No! no!” cried several voices in response, “you are welcome, sirs! you are welcome!”
Having thus spoken their permission, the people once more dispersed themselves over the ground; while the two officers, arm in arm, commenced strolling through the encampment – followed by a crowd of the lower class of peasants, who continued to gratify their curiosity by gazing upon the steel-clad strangers.
Sir Marmaduke and his friends had returned to their former stand – upon the elevated crest of the moat, and at some distance from the causeway, where the officers had entered. The latter saunteringly proceeded in that direction; freely flinging their jests among the crowd who accompanied them; and now and then exchanging phrases of no very gentle meaning, with such of the peasant girls as chanced to stray across their path.
The host of the fête had resolved not to offer the intruders a single word of welcome. The rude demand made by the comet, coupled with the coarse dialogue between the two officers – part of which he had overheard – had determined Sir Marmaduke to take no notice of them, until they should of themselves declare their errand.
He had ordered the morris dance to be resumed. In front of where he stood the dancers had reformed their figures; and, with streaming ribbons and ringing bells, were again tripping it over the turf.
“By the toes of Terpsichore, a morris dance!” exclaimed the captain of cuirassiers, as he came near enough to recognise the costume and measure. “An age since I have seen one!”
“Never saw one in my life,” rejoined Stubbs; “except on the stage. Is it the same?”
No doubt Stubbs spoke the truth. He had been born in the ward of Cheap, and brought up within the sound of Bow-bells.
“Not quite the same,” drawled the captain, “though something like – if I remember aright. Let’s forward, and have a squint at it.”
Hastening their steps a little, the two officers soon arrived on the edge of the circle; and without taking any notice of the “people of quality,” who were stationed upon the platform above, they commenced flinging free jibes among the dancers.
Some of these made answer with spirit – especially Little John and the Jolly Friar, who chanced to be fellows of a witty turn; and who in their own rude fashion gave back to the two intruders full value for what they received.
Bold Robin – who appeared rather a surly representative of Sherwood’s hero – bore their sallies with an indifferent grace – more especially on perceiving that the eyes of the cuirassier captain became lit up with a peculiar fire, while following Maid Marian through the mazes of the dance.
But the heart of the pseudo-outlaw was destined to be further wrung. A climax was at hand. As Marian came to the close of one of her grandest pas, the movement had inadvertently brought her close to the spot where the cuirassier captain was standing.
“Bravo! beautiful Marian!” cried the latter, bending towards her, and clasping her rudely around the waist. “Allow a thirsty soldier to drink nectar from those juicy lips of thine.”
And without finishing the speech, or waiting for her consent – which he knew would be refused – he protruded his lips through the visor of his helmet, till they came in contact with those of the girl.
A blow from a clenched feminine fist, received right in his face, neither disconcerted nor angered the daring libertine; who answered it by a loud reckless laugh, in which he was joined by his cornet, and chorussed by some of the less sentimental of the spectators.
There were others who did not seem inclined to treat the affair in this jocular fashion.
Cries of “Shame!” “Pitch into him!” “Gie it him, Robin!” were heard among the crowd; and angry faces could be seen mingled with the merry ones.
The idol of England’s peasantry needed not such stimulus to stir him to action. Stung by jealousy, and the insult offered to his sweetheart, he sprang forward; and, raising his crossbow – the only weapon he carried – high overhead, he brought it down with a “thwack” upon the helmet of the cuirassier captain, which caused the officer to stagger some paces backward ere he could recover himself.
“Take that, dang thee!” shouted Robin, as he delivered the blow. “Take that; an’ keep thy scurvy kisses to thyself.”
“Low-born peasant!” cried the cuirassier, his face turning purple as he spoke, “if thou wert worthy a sword, I’d spit thee like a red-herring. Keep off, churl, or I may be tempted to take thy life!”
As he uttered this conditional threat, he drew his sword; and stood with the blade pointing towards the breast of bold Robin.
There was an interval of profound silence. It was terminated by a voice among the crowd crying out: – “Yonder comes the man that’ll punish him!”
All eyes were turned towards the elevated platform, on which stood the “people of quality.” There was a commotion among the cavaliers. One, who had separated from the rest, was seen hurrying down the sloping side of the moat, and making direct for the scene of the contention.
He had only a dozen steps to go; and, before either the pseudo-outlaw of Sherwood-forest, and his mailed adversary, could change their relative positions, he had glided in between them.
The first intimation the cuirassier had of a true antagonist, was, when a bright sword-blade rasped against his own, striking sparks of fire from the steel; and he beheld standing in front of him, no longer a “low-born peasant,” clad in Kendal Green, but a cavalier in laced doublet, elegantly attired as himself, and equally as determined.
This new climax silenced the spectators, as suddenly, as if the wand of an enchanter had turned them into stone; and it was not till after some seconds had elapsed that murmurs of applause rose round the ring, coupled with that popular cry, “Huzza for the black horseman!”
For a moment the captain of cuirassiers seemed awed into silence. Only for a moment, and only by the suddenness of the encounter. Swaggerer as he may have been, Scarthe was no coward; and under the circumstances even a coward must have shown courage. Though still under the influence of a partial intoxication, he knew that bright eyes were upon him; he knew that high-born dames were standing within ten paces of the spot; and, though hitherto, for reasons of his own, pretending to ignore their presence, he knew they had been spectators of all that had passed. He had no intention, therefore, of showing the white feather.
Perhaps it was the individual, who had thus presented himself, as much as his sudden appearance, that held him for the moment speechless: for in the antagonist before him, Scarthe recognised the cavalier, who in front of the roadside inn had daringly drunk —
“To the People!”
The souvenir of this insult, added to this new defiance, furnished a double stimulus to his resentment – which at length found expression in words.
“You it is, disloyal knave? You!”
“Disloyal or not,” calmly returned the cavalier, “I demand reparation for the slight you have offered to this respectable assemblage. Your free fashions may do for Flanders – where I presume you’ve been practising them – but I must teach you to salute the fair maidens of England in a different style.”
“And who are you, who propose to give the lesson?”
“No low-born peasant, Captain Richard Scarthe! Don’t fancy you can screen yourself behind that coward’s cloak. You must fight, or apologise?”
“Apologise!” shouted the soldier, in a furious voice, “Captain Scarthe apologise! Ha! ha! ha! Hear that Cornet Stubbs? Did you ever know me to apologise?”
“Never, by Ged!” muttered Stubbs in reply.
“As you will then,” said the cavalier, placing himself in an attitude to commence the combat.
“No, no!” cried Maid Marian, throwing herself in front of Holtspur, as if to screen his body with her own. “You must not, sir. It is not fair. He is in armour, and you, sir – ”
“No – it arn’t fair!” proclaimed several voices; while at the same moment, a large fierce-looking man, with bushy black beard, was seen pushing his way through the crowd towards the spot occupied by the adversaries.
“Twoant do, Master Henry,” cried the bearded man as he came up. “You mustn’t risk it that way. I know ye’re game for any man on the groun’, or in England eyther; but it arn’t fair. The sodger captain must peel off them steel plates o’ his; and let the fight be a fair ’un. What say ye, meeats?”
This appeal to the bystanders was answered by cries of “Fair play! fair play! The officer must take off his armour!”
“Certainly,” said Walter Wade, at this moment coming up. “If these gentlemen are to fight, the conditions must be equal. Of course, Captain Scarthe, you will not object to that?”
“I desire no advantage,” rejoined the cuirassier captain. “He may do as he likes; but I shall not lay aside my armour on any account.”
“Then your antagonist must arm also,” suggested one of the gentlemen, who had accompanied Walter. “The combat cannot go on, till that be arranged.”
“No! no!” chimed in several voices, “both should be armed alike.”
“Perhaps this gentleman,” said one, pointing to the cornet, “will have no objection to lend his for the occasion? That would simplify matters. It appears to be about the right size.”
Stubbs looked towards his captain, as much as to say, “Shall I refuse?”
“Let him have it!” said Scarthe, seeing that the proposal could not well be declined.
“He’s welcome to it!” said the cornet, who instantly commenced unbuckling.
There were hands enough to assist Henry Holtspur in putting on the defensive harness; and, in a few minutes’ time, he was encased in the steel accoutrements of the cornet – cuirass and gorget, pauldrons, cuisses, and braces – all of which fortunately fitted, as if they had been made for him.
The helmet still remained in the hand of one of the attendants – who made a motion towards placing it upon Holtspur’s head.
“No!” said the latter, pushing it away. “I prefer wearing my beaver.” Then pointing to the trophy set above its brim, he added, “It carries that which will sufficiently protect my head. An English maiden has been insulted, and under the glove of an English maiden shall the insult be rebuked.”
“Don’t be so confident in the virtue of your pretty trophy,” rejoined Scarthe with a sarcastic sneer. “Ere long I shall take that glove from your hat, and stick it on the crest of my helmet. No doubt I shall then have come by it more honestly than you have done.”
“Time enough to talk of wearing, when you have won it,” quietly retorted the cavalier. “Though, by my troth,” added he, returning sneer for sneer, “you should strive hard to obtain it; you stand in need of a trophy to neutralise the loss of your spurs left behind you in the ford of Newburn.”
The “ford of Newburn” was Scarthe’s especial fiend. He was one of that five thousand horsemen, who under Conway had ignominiously retreated from the Tyne – spreading such a panic throughout the whole English army, as to carry it without stop or stay far into the heart of Yorkshire. Once before had Holtspur flung the disgraceful souvenir in his teeth; and now to be a second time reproached with it, before a crowd of his countrymen, before his own followers – many of whom had by this time entered within the camp – but above all, in presence of that more distinguished circle of proud and resplendent spectators, standing within earshot, on the moat above – that was the direst insult to which he had ever been subjected. As his antagonist repeated the taunting allusion, his brow already dark, grew visibly darker; while his thin lips whitened, as if the blood had altogether forsaken them.
“Base demagogue!” cried he, hissing the words through his clenched teeth, “your false tongue shall be soon silenced. On the escutcheon of Captain Scarthe there is no stain, save the blood of his enemies, and the enemies of his king. Yours shall be mingled with the rest.”
“Come!” cried Holtspur, with an impatient wave of his weapon. “I stand not here for a contest of tongues; in which no doubt the accomplished courtier Scarthe would prove my superior. Our swords are drawn! Are you ready, sir?”
“No,” responded Scarthe.
“No?” interrogated his antagonist with a look of surprise. “What – ”
“Captain Scarthe is a cuirassier. He fights not a-foot.”
“You are the challenged party!” put in Stubbs, “You have the right of choice, captain.”
“Our combat then shall be on horseback.”
“Thanks for the favour, gentlemen!” responded Holtspur, with a pleased look, “My own wish exactly; though I had scarce hoped to obtain it. You have said the word – we fight on horseback.”
“My horse!” shouted Scarthe, turning to one of his troopers. “Bring him up; and let the ground he cleared of this rabble.”
There was no necessity for the order last issued. As soon as it had become known, that the combat was to be fought on horseback, the people scattered on all sides – rushing towards the crest of the moat, and there taking their stand – most of them delighted at the prospect of witnessing a spectacle, which, even in those chivalrous times, was of uncommon occurrence.
Volume One – Chapter Nineteen
From the commanding eminence, on which were clustered the “quality folks,” the preparations had been watched with a vivid interest, and with emotions varying in kind.
“Splendid!” exclaimed Dorothy Dayrell, as the sword-blades were seen clashing together. “Beats the morris dancers all to bits! Just what I like! One of those little interludes not mentioned in the programme of the entertainment. Surely we’re going to see a fight?”
Lora Lovelace trembled, as she listened to these speeches.
“Oh, Dorothy Dayrell!” said she, turning upon the latter an upbraiding look, “’Tis too serious for jesting. You do not mean it?”
“But I do mean it, Mistress Lovelace. I’m not jesting. Not a bit of it. I’m quite in earnest, I assure you.”
“Surely you would not wish to see blood spilled?”
“And why not? What care I, so long as it isn’t my own blood; or that of one of my friends. Ha! ha! ha! What are either of these fellows to you, or me? I know neither. If they’re angry with each other, let them fight it out. Foh-poh! They may kill one another, for aught I care.”